Perhaps for a pint or slice of cake,
in a pub or grocer's shop,
and because she punctured yet again
those bruises on your forearm?
It just seemed so out of place,
that croaked 'Thank you',
stopped only from toppling down the throat
because of its exit on a puff of pain.
As we left via 'Casualty',
threading the rows of
the boozed and battered,
some pissed pugilist announced
he'd "waited for fucking ages...",
as we stepped out to a 'forever'
fresh started that night.