THESE FOOLISH THINGS
A pair of boobies in a loose brassiere,
A cunt that twitches like a moose's ear,
A dirty rubber in my glass of beer,
Chorus: These foolish things remind me of you.
Those bloodstained knickers in a London taxi,
Strange noises from a horses jaxie,
The night you aborted twins./Your little hairy quim.
Chorus:
Lipstick traces on an old french letter,
Attacks of syphilis that won't get better,
And when I piss it stings.
Chorus:
A running sore beside an open hole,
A kotex floating in my toilet bowl,
A pubic hair on my breakfast roll.
Chorus:
When I awoke upon the morning after,
I saw your tits and pissed myself with laughter,
Oh how the left one swings.
Chorus:
The birth control book with it's well worn pages,
The contraceptive that comes off in stages,
Oh how my foreskin stings.
Chorus:
Sex education with old Sister Mary,
Abusing turkeys in the aviary,
Oh how those birds could sing.
Chorus:
Blood stains on the sheet that soap can't shift,
Frozen dog turds in a deep snow drift,
And when it comes to spring.
Chorus:
The leather sofa where we used to linger,
The quim juice running down my middle finger,
And those squeaky springs.
Chorus:
The old settee we used to lie and grunt on,
The piece of rag you used to wipe your cunt on,
How the aroma clings.
Chorus:
The motel room we used to hug and kiss in,
The flower pot you used to squat and piss in,
There'll be no flowers next spring.
Chorus:
The newsboy calling out the late night final,
Those girlish screams from in the gents urinal,
Sometimes I think my crabs have wings.
Chorus:
Your legs wrapped round me in a wild contortion,
The rusty tongs we used for your abortion,
A big, fat, flabby minge.
Chorus:
Those handcuffs dangling beside the bed,
Teeth marks on my dong after you gave me head,
A banana sticking in your quim.
Chorus:
A mini-minor with the seats pushed forward,
That little bunk-up that is oh so awkward,
The way we shook its springs.
Chorus: