Different Shades
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HE:
Don’t like this tube train.
Always a soul-drain.
Plebeian wasteland.
Desert with no sand.
What was that track by
Transvision Vamp?
Jennifer Ellison.
That was the one.
She did the cover.
Saw a programme on her.
What was that school called
in
That’s where she went.
Taught by Catholics and
preachers.
Short skirts never long
enough,
She said, for the teachers.
I hope that darkie with the
rucksack ain’t a suicide bomber.
I mean crikey, Jenny well
Jesus…
SHE:
Wonder where he is now.
Is he thinking of me?
Is there somebody else?
Am I his, or still free
To experiment, share my
fantasies
In the real world, I mean
Or should I feel guilty?
It’s not fair. I stopped
work
To look after the kids.
Don’t even like them that
much.
Not my idea, was it?
Their mates at school are
too shy to be true;
That’s ‘cause they fancy me.
He really ain’t got a clue.
HE:
This report is a joke. I
need some light relief.
They’re asking too many
questions outside of the brief.
I like that bird, prob’ly seventeen.
She just looked at me then.
Bet she fancies me.
SHE:
He only smiles for effect
unless she mirrors him first
Almost like he’s sixteen,
only flirts with my skirt
Well he can have ‘em. Don’t
care if he’s in love or he’s not.
Don’t think he pays for it
yet. But if he does, then so what?
HE:
Bet that’ll burn a hole in
the chancellor’s budget
While he throws a smoking
blanket on the national debt.
I’m not cut out for this
shit. I hate him. He’s wet.
Should have been a drop-out.
Should have been a poet.
SHE:
It’s the menopause now. He’s
a hormonal trap.
Gets more turned on by a
falling bra-strap.
Gonna get a life. I reckon we gotta split.
He’s no imagination. I can’t
go on with all this wifey shit…
me
HE:
Well here we are, ladies:
The Britannia Bar, oh!
Euston Station. Wotta larf.
Innit, though?
Can’t trust no one. This
laptop’s the company’s.
I’ll hang it on that
SHE:
Fuck safe sex, mate.
We’re getting a lodger.
All I need now is a prick
With a twelve-inch todger.
Maybe he’s gay? Fuckin’
flower-brain.
Bet he’s got me those tit-grabbin’ triffids
again.
HE:
Bet she’s thinking of me.
Hope she likes the flowers.
I want a pasty. Can’t. I’m
on a diet.
Could always get a
croque-monsieur [pronounce: croak monsyewer]
from the bar.
Problem is that ‘c’ when
followed by a French ‘r’…
HE & SHE:
It’s driving me mad. I’m
gonna torture those kids.
We got married too young.
Then that was it…
Still, if that’s all there
is, guess we can’t complain
But when it comes to the
kids, there I’d think again.
Don’t like the flowers no
more. Only like the colours.
All those different shades
of yellow, green, blue and red.
Always wondering, me. Has
s/he ever wondered?
Kind of thing you notice
when your days are numbered…