Foaming Old Suds

I can only imagine how lonely you are,
Alone with your phone in your cell.
Your marriage was a miscarriage,
Your friends a personal hell.

And, yes, you have twelve houses,
A garage full of cars,
But now you have these worldly things,
You'd rather live on Mars.

I tried to tell you years ago,
That I’d never fuck your wife,
Big boys don't listen, though,
And now you’re doing life.

So now you can’t even talk,
To the boy that you called Max,
He’s out there playing football,
Against a wall on his jacks.

The girl that you called Gemma,
You can hardly bear to see,
She’s the apple of your eye,
Or so you always told me.

There’s only one person in your world,
To you, your wife’s a ghost,
But ghosts don’t need drink to hide from you,
Though she loves her sleep the most.