There's a strange woman in the flat above

I fear that lockdown has affected her wits

She's started singing in the middle of the night

Mostly Whitney Houston's greatest hits

 

I put a note under her door complaining

She rang saying sorry for giving me a fright

We're both young bored and frustrated she said

She knew a better way to pass the night

 

It turns out she's a trained psychotherapist

Who specialises in emotional wrecks

Instead of me listening to her screeching

She suggested a course of telephone sex

 

At midnight after a few drinks I ring Ginger

She describes her cat-suit of black leather

As we chat into the early hours she hints at

What she's up to with her ostrich feather

 

Therapy's proved so productive that

We were simply dying to meet in the flesh

When after a few gins she let slip her secret

A fetish for rubber, wellingtons and wire mesh

 

The next night I gulped my scotch fearing the worst

En passant she asked my views on latex and long rods

I'm twelve stone of womanly muscle she announced

Somehow I didnt like the sound of those odds

 

Its almost dawn and she's pounding the door

Gas mask on, drunk and wielding her birch

I can't call the police because of my calling

I'm the new curate at St Mark's parish church