Off you go, back to the strange world from which you came from.

All that remains is a newspaper clipping, the odd strand of hair: even now.

Filthy remarks still stain each and every mug.

The smell of lies still clings to the curtains,

Like a kitten before training.

Outside its obviously raining.

Another cliché for the books.

Maybe if it wasn’t for my impatience, her good looks,

My jigsaw would be complete,

Then here you are again, begging at my feet.

But off I go to the strange world from which I came,

Preserving my dignity, leaving you the gift of my shame.