ODE TO A LOW FLYING BIRD

We’ll always have Paris
Said Bogie in Casablanca,
But you won’t get an eye full
Of the worlds great romancer
Unless you pick up your phone
The one that’s smarter than you,
And just text yes,
That you’ll be delighted to accept
A dirty weekend
On his American Express.

It all happened so suddenly
After the old school reunion,
With you in that slinky black number
And the tight fitting shoes on.
As you fondly remembered
How you used to make merry
After two pints of Bulmer’s
In his dad’s Datsun Cherry

You were just sweet sixteen then
Now look at yourself,
A string of failed marriages
And a place on the shelf,
Until along came Sir Galahad
To rescue your heart
With an offer of a quick one
In some pad on Montmartre.

Oh how it’s so tempting
This man who has done all,
But it won’t just be Eurostar
That’ll go through a tunnel.
And what of that bloke
Who’ll be waiting at home?
Texting sweet nothings
Into your mobile phone.

Sweet nothings, sweet nothings
That’s all you exchange,
Like a couple of cowpokes
Down home on the range.
So depressingly normal
So adverse to rebuke,
It makes those around you
Want to violently puke.

Take a look in the mirror
You’re not young and not sweet,
So why insist on acting
Like teenagers in heat?
Think of the children
Of the harm you have done
For there’s none that’s so blind
As the embarrassing mum.

But then think of this Romeo
With his flash and his patter
It’s only a weekend
So what does it matter?
So why not give in
To his pester power,
Or would you rather end up
As a wilting wallflower?

Weigh up the options
It’s like The Million Pound Drop
Against the bloke who shares a Christian name
With Cable and Van Gough.
Then think of that flash dude
That’s texting your blower,
I bet he’s like a cross between
Tom Watson and Patrick Mower.

For all the diets and exercise
And shedding of weight
Won’t count for nothing
And can’t compensate,
For the chance of a lifetime
Spent with an old friend,
So why not come clean
And have a dirty weekend?

We’re all rooting for you,
You know it makes sense
And you can’t count experience
In pounds, shillings and pence.
So go on, be daring,
It won’t break your heart
Better a dirty old cow
Than a boring old fart!