We rang in sick and drunk a draught,

stuck a needle on a revolving track;

jumped in bed and shagged ourselves daft

to Martha Reeves singing Jimmy Mack.

I opened The Jam and awaited The Clash;

you weren’t my cast, too pale and flat

and your nose turned-up in a serial spat

with your dark blue cape that flowed and splashed

from the midnight hour 'til when we crashed.

I should have kept you under my hat

or locked up safe in a dark carafe -

poured you out then poured you back.

I built a skeleton from photographs;

the empty spaces fill up with black.

I’m trying to put some flesh upon that.