We’d ring in sick and drink a draught,

stick a needle on a turning track,

jump in bed and shag ourselves daft

to Martha Reeves singing Jimmy Mack.

When I tried to punch above my class

your shoulder straps outranked my cap

as you went Wham and I went Clash

with a nose turned up in the aftermath

of jig and fizz that flowed and splashed

from early doors ‘til when we crashed.

Old singles scratch and booze is flat:

I should have kept you stored on tap

or locked up safe in a dark carafe -

poured you out then poured you back.