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How I’m sick of thesel lips, my troublesome travelling twins
The bottom curls above the top
And won’t stop
Its his job to remind me
and points are lost,
Chapped and ugly.
the buffet shut early.
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Defeat, and Wednesday’s miserable boozeless fridge at two and three AM,
Sitting in the silence of a council house waiting for the milkman.
My girl who owns the fridge has seen the score on Sky.
And the loving note she left informs “be quiet or you will die”.
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Saturday’s hopeful fry-up
The smell of the washing, the humped-backed footbridge
It used to walk me up and serve Saturday
Like a favourite dinner,
Always the same.