Dave Two

In any cafe', when you figure it, there's always the odd flake, where the kitchen shakes, chefs boiling in fits, forget about the wage, they’re all on the make, with their new gadgets, that go in this place, my back’s in outer space, no hands can fit, around the pain, it spins before my face, like a launderette, puts me out the game, hanging on a door frame, music from a playlist, holds me up this way, it'd be a cheek to say, love doesn’t exist, when my wife and my mate, act like they’ve hit.