Now, you're thinking to yourself:
Was he dancing with six girls
Or was it merely five.
Well, punk, was it?
Photos of one in particular,
A prim and proper Jennifer Lopez
And your call – having been absent – the next day
Enquiring how it had all gone.
A lad next to me noticed me
For the first time and said,
"You work for him, right?
He's a fucking legend."
I remember him turning up at the pub after work,
Leaving some bitch on the other side of the road
To go her own way,
Meeting another inside
On his way to yet another later that night,
"Life's all good", he said, grinning.
Someone actually applauded.
He doesn't even wash
And he's not that loaded –
He's no football star –
Though he has enough
To be on the company website
Telling how he'd started as the junior,
A sort of rags to riches thing,
From small prick to a swinging big one.
He was talking how he was having to buy
Some new Land Rover,
Now he'd bought this pad
Down in Chichester
And that he'd might have to rent out
Some of his five bed house
In Clapham – maybe he'd put an ad out
For some Swedish au pairs,
Christ knows he must have fathered enough in his travels
To provide them with work.
And you, the trophiest of them all,
Told Cindy that you weren't good enough for him
That he was not only clever but sharp
And was going places
And you would only slow him down.
But he never saw you like that –
You were always just a fuck,
And once he had the memory
Of that vision of you giving head,
You were instantly forgotten.
That would have always been
A mini-sub-masterplan in his masterplan.
And you, you lazy fat speccy cow,
Useless in sex
With your drippy butIloveyous
The person they all dread
To be sat next to at the dinner table,
"Next time before you come at least please
Your fat nose on your fat face,
Your piggy eyes
Moving all about but not at
Who you're speaking to,
Your slowness and your
Gloom. No one
Cares to listen to that
Drivel all mixed up with some Northern mockney.
You're no good at what you do
JUST HURT YOURSELF.