Come On, Cocktease

Now sweetheart, if we had all day,
To chew the fat I’d say fair play
Let’s call a limo, head for Strings,
We’ll talk about romance and things
A few lines of the Devil’s Dandruff, a bottle of shampoo,
Nothing ‘d be too good for you
A hundred million years could pass
With me just looking at your lovely arse
A billion maybe, on your tits,
Say, fifty for the other bits
And I could like, do all fancy paintings and stuff of each nipple
Till Tottenham Hotspur won the Triple
I’d chat you up till Doomsday Eve
Cos babe, you’re worth all that, believe

See darl, I don’t want to cause you no sorrow
But we’ve both of us got work tomorrow
And yeah, I could text you, but – now don’t get antsy –
There are some other birds I fancy
And I like to keep my options open
Cos, ideally, I was hoping
You and me could skip the chat
Don’t get me wrong, you’re fit and that
But that don’t mean we have to talk
Relationships, that squawk-squawk-squawk
‘Bout mortgages and buying prams
And ‘how’s our Lee done with exams?’
And ‘what sort of time d’you call this?
Coming in stinking like a tinker’s piss.
You been out with your bloody mates again, ain’t you?
Mum said it was useless trying to change you –
Like trying to teach a pig to rollerblade.
Where’d you get the money for this latest escapade?
I ain’t had a night out for ages;
Scraping by on your measly wages.
What I wouldn’t do for a real man –
One who puts me first. One who understands
That listening to Five Live in bed ain’t foreplay.
Who don’t turn up gone midnight in our doorway
Staggering like a crackhead mumbling
“Aww… where’s me dinner?” and fumbling
With his gonads. What?
Don’t look at me like I’ve lost the plot.
I’ve got needs. This treatment’s inhumane.
I’m like a precious flower without any rain.
Our passion’s all gone to the dogs.
This ain’t just built for laying sprogs
You stupid, filthy, drunken tit –
You made your bed, go lie in it!’

Yeah. Basically I don’t want that.

So listen, angel, mi amore,
Here’s the ending to our story:
You and I neck some more booze
Then creep off to the upstairs loos
To find a little private suite
We’ll lock the door and wipe the seat
Then rut like randy backstreet dogs
Nirvana in the ladies’ bogs.
See, life may be a crock of shite
But you and me, we’ve got tonight,
And one day worms ‘ll eat your eyes
So come on, peach, undo my flies.