Third Party
Please ignore my age, my receding hair,
beneath these teeth I'm debonair;
take my hand and I'll take you there
on a dirty weekend in Brighton
Across this partition my love has grown
whilst settling insurance claims by phone:
if not Brighton - Nice or Rome
would be the place for us.
You really are the sweetest thing
I'll rent an MG, wear threads and bling
and if the hotel has Karaoke I will not sing
Sweet Caroline - a song I know you hate.
Oh please Miss Munt ,Oh please Miss Munt
I will not to rhyme your name with pudendum
I know I am a terrible runt
but I promise to change my underpants.
Your centre parting, the top of your head,
your glimpsed camisole lace, my lust has fed.
You, in your headset, I dream of in bed
whilst sleeping with my wife.
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