The onions always made you cry, In ev’ry fry-up, soup, and pie – But that’s what onions do, I guess, They leave all chefs in such a mess. And so you had to drop them out From roasted duck and sauteed trout – You didn’t trust, as master cook, They way they always made you look.
Instead, you turned to garlic, And gazed beyond shallots and springs – Your eyes no longer marked by onion rings. You tossed the cloves in thick, Undaunted by my teasing quips – “Is this to stop me kissing other lips ?” Until, at once, you were gone – You said it was for a breath of fresh air, To peel back the layers of life and see what’s there. And yet, you linger on – It’s been three days and a dozen beers, Yet still I taste your garlic in my tears.
Has it been so long ? Has it really been so many years Since last we greeted one another ? Since we said goodbye in tears After it had all gone wrong…? Yeah, I guess it has been after all. Are we about to rediscover Why we never tried to call ?
I can’t believe it either… I guess they don’t make years like they used to, Back when we were foolish-young – Of course, I never thought I’d lose you… Never thought I’d win you, neither, Yet, back then, I guess I did, Until experience had stung, Reminding me I’m just a kid.
We had some fun, though, didn’t we…? It’s coming back – the better times, The silly, noisy better times, When life was there for living. We had a good run, you and me, Before the arguments and guilt, Before the milk was spilt, Before each second-guessed misgiving.
Has it been so long ? Has it been a lifetime since we spoke ? It all seemed so important, And so ruined once it broke. I guess we came out strong, We both have landed on all-fours. It’s good to see you, even sporting still That wayward smile of yours.
Now that Winter’s easing, And the Sun is breaking cover, Then what could be more pleasing Than to wake from hibernating with my lover ? And as the sap is rushing And the Spring is turning bold, Then what could be more crushing Than to hear she wants to clean-out with the old ? We’d clung to one-another, While the Winter held us in its thrall, I thought she was my lover, But I guess that April makes fools of us all.
Now with the lambs in clover And the daylight on the rise, So she wants to be a rover And she wants to try the Springtime on for size. She slips out after equinox With all the world at play, By the changing of the clocks, Then I know the cruellest month’s not far away. With the first song of the skylark And the golden tulips growing tall, She’s off to find another mark – I guess that April makes fools of us all.
Where do all my socks go When a fresh set can’t be sourced ? My pairs may start out married, But they always end divorced – Woollen-millers, stocking-fillers, Full-of-holes or reinforced, Longs and shorts and blacks and creams – Like-and-like repel, it seems. Many lonely-socks are sulking Limp and curled up on their tod – Unloved, unworn, dresser-skulking, Each one well-and-truly odd.
Where do all my socks go ? Onto other people’s feet ? Too long in drawers they’ve tarried Now they’re keen to up-and-meet – They’re soc-hopping, garter-dropping, – Long-legged jeans keep them discreet. Sock it to ’em, just for kicks, Silk, bamboo and cotton-mix. Whenever mismatched-socks are strutting, Are they going on a date ? When they’re balled up, are they rutting, Knitting booties with their mate ?
Miss Haversham or Jilted John, With no clue what’s been going on – That’s me. When the hero comes bursting into the church To win back his one true love, Then I’m the one who’s stood at the altar. I’m the one who’s always left in the lurch, Who only exists to get the shove, Because my name is Chester or Walter.
(Hiring the organist, ballroom, and tails – The invites and rings and the horse-drawn chaise, Flying my folks in from New South Wales, For untaken photos and uneaten canapés.)
Forever Paris or Rosalind, Traded-in for the chisel-chinned – That’s me. I’m the one who isn’t famous or pouty, I’m the wimp who’s got no soul, The banker or techie or wonk who’s bland and nice. You’ll all have quite forgotten about me By the time the credits roll I’m just another shallow plot device.
(I won’t be getting out of here for hours – Shaking their hands, and arranging their lifts, And someone still has to clear out the flowers, And cancel the band, and return all the gifts.)
February, when the end of Winter Greets the start of the start of Spring – And what better time for the ravens to be mating, For these early birds to be doing their thing ? Valentine ravens, tender and dear – They’re mating-for-life for year after year.
Coming out of the edges of the wilderness, From the Northern moors to the middle-class downs – Now nobody persecutes their loving anymore, So they do it in the open and they do it in the towns. Valentine ravens, cawing their love – A far better symbol than a bear-cub or a dove.
Strange, how this day of love Is a day of sneezes and fingers numb. Why does it fall with a deathly chill As the hothouse roses succumb ? Maybe it serves to underscore How love is often bittersweet – Whereas, in the height of Summer, This day would be lost in the endless heat.
Strange, how this day of red Is a day of snowdrops and Winter mould. Why does it fall when the days are short And the nights are bitterly cold ? Maybe it serves to warm the frost, And give our torpid hearts a shove – Whereas, in the height of Summer, Who needs a reminder to fall in love ?
February rolls around, And on comes the propaganda – Singletons are not allowed, We put a downer on the crowd. So February rolls around And ev’rybody has to pander. Haven’t we all heard the songs ? Haven’t we all seen the movies ? Still we seem to get it wrong, And still we just won’t play along, And still we’re far too choosy.
“You there ! You on your own ! Out after curfew ! Come here, sonny ! Where are your papers ? Where are your cards ? And your chocolates ? Oh, so you think this is funny…? I think you’d better tell me which restaurant you’re booked in, And the name of the one you’re meeting, too… You know it’s only lovers who may walk the streets tonight, All spinsters, slobs and nerds must hide from view.”
Ah, ignore me – What am I even getting angry for ? So the world is in love… Would I rather the world were at war ? Go – shout it out, have your fun, And I’ll get on with mine – Just please, never pity me, never that – And we’ll get along just fine.
Loving and laughing are nothing but tricks – Just social conventions we do for the kicks. We desp’rately want to be one of the crowd, And if we suspect, then we do them too loud. We’re unsure and frightened, we’re playing our parts – We want to believe, but we know in our hearts… But sod it, who cares if it’s all in the head ?, We’re gullible fools who are easily led. If love is elusive, it don’t mean it’s broke – For even the cynical like a good joke.