I walk along the Strand 

to catch the late ride home. 

Shuttle through the evening gloom 

knowing I forgot to phone. 

The back door's open. 

There's a chill blowing in. 

Take your warm hands off me. 

Let the night begin. 

Shush your mouth. 

Listen to me. 

I won't say nothing --- 

just let me be your 

toad in the hole. 



Kicking through the wet leaves lying 

all along the Station Road. 

Past tired graffitti wailing, 

raw emotion to unload. 

There's coal in the fireplace 

and money in the bank too. 

Deep-pile carpets, tinsel wallpaper. 

Still got the back room to do. 

Don't be late. 

Got a day's work behind me. 

Feel a little devastated 

but my nights are assigned to you. 



Toad in the hole. 



No tom-cat creeping, now 

could ever be so bold 

to hang around our place tonight 

when I come in from the cold. 

There's a straight-six in the garage 

and some fine wine to cool. 

Labour-savers in the kitchen, 

room in the garden for a pool. 

Shush your mouth. 

Let imagination run 

here in bed-sit heaven 

where all the best wishing's done 

to warm toad in the hole.