Where have all the sofas gone,
all the bar stools that we set upon?
Axminster carpets, wall to wall
that muffled the sound
so we could tell all:
“had a blind date in a pub
and on detection
he had an erection.
It was love at first sight
for one fucking good night.”
.
Where have all the sofas gone,
all the bar stools that we set upon?
Burgundy wall paper, flocked and fine,
Liebfrauenmilch and dodgy French wine.
Brains sharpened like pencils
by cigarettes and beer
and after elections
we lost no affections
on Thatcher or smooth talking Blair.
It was hate at first sight
then and there we plotted to fight.
.
Where have all the sofas gone,
all the bar stools that we set upon?
worn out library chairs with wings
where sad ones whine and whinge,
creepy corners to cuddle and snog,
slide your hand up somebodies frock.
The shock at eleven
last order calls
from Scotland to Devon
‘to whom the bell tolls’
into the cold night we stroll.
.
Where have all the sofas gone?
