Third Party

Please ignore my age, my receding hair,
beneath these teeth I'm debonair;
take my hand and I'll take you there
on a dirty weekend in Brighton

Across this partition my love has grown
whilst settling insurance claims by phone:
if not Brighton - Nice or Rome
would be the place for us.

 You really are the sweetest thing
 I'll rent an MG, wear threads and bling
 and if the hotel has Karaoke - I will not sing
 Sweet Caroline: a song I know you hate.

 Oh please Miss Munt ,Oh please Miss Munt,
 I will not rhyme your name with pudendum
 I know I am a terrible runt
 but I promise to change - my underpants.

Your centre parting, the top of your head,
your glimpsed camisole lace, my lust has fed.
You, in your headset, I dream of in bed
whilst sleeping with my wife.