A quarter to twelve on a Friday night.
Face in my pillow; eyelids shut tight,
Trying to block out what the world keeps telling me.
She'll be with him now. Now that she's free.
Free of our marriage vows all tattered and torn.
Free to dance away through till the morn.
"Would you care for coffee? Or
perhaps something stronger?
Don't leave me just yet. Stay a little bit longer."
That's what she says, or so my mind keeps telling me
Over and over till a quarter past three.
I see them lying naked across a satin
Lying so close together: Satisfied; Replete.
But no matter what that picture always has a space,
For as that man turns around I see:- He has no face.
Barbs in my subconscious are torturing
For while I'm in prison and she is free
I can never be certain as all of us know,
What she will do or where she will go.