(Difford/Tilbrook) 



We talk about each other   

On our wrap around couch,   

And live out all the romance   

In our little town house.   

I never fit the shower   

And she never sews the threads,   

And so we find our feelings   

In other people's beds.   

And if the grass seems greener,   

But it turns out to be blue   

The garden of Eden isn't quite the place for you.   

Don't be surprised if I'm gone under the spell,   

Of some other witches' wand   

Ringing someone else's bell.   



Meeting on the motorway   

Your lover boy blue,   

Steaming up the windows   

With your last breath of youth.   

Don't you think I see it   

Your handbag's full of notes,   

I'm feeling like the punch line   

In someone's private joke.   



Our eyes don't seem to contact   

Never much to say,   

Except perhaps excuse me   

Or pass me the ashtray.   

I see him waiting for you   

As you go off to work,   

I'm left to draw conclusions   

While I button up my shirt.