Dave

In any place, when you figure it, there's always an Old Lady, while the kitchen shakes, chefs toil in fits, to get a living wage, they’re all on the make, with these new gadgets, that fly around this space, my back is out the race, no hands can fit, around the pain, it spins before my face, like a lover in a launderette, puts me out the game, hangs me on a door frame, music from a tablet, plays again and again, it'd be wrong to say, love doesn’t exist, when my wife and my mate, look like they’ve hit.