Running Off, With The Bloke Next Door
The bloke next door is running off
at the mouth. Not with my wife.
And I'm running off with a pound of scoff
which will last me all my life.
He's running off (the bloke next door)
some photocopies of my face.
It's time, I think, to mind the store
of my memoirs – in this case.
You see, I'm the bloke next door (you thought
I was Tony? Don't make me laugh –
not that you could – I'm not the sort
who runs off with the better half,
or bitter half of a marriage like ours.
We've been lovers, but we don't cheat.
Not much). I'll maybe send him flowers,
now he's not run off his feet.
I'll be the dark side of the moon
when they turn his honeyed sun off.
And I'll be the leader, very soon,
providing I get through the run-off.
The bloke next door is running off
the cliff, now I've given the nod.
He had the cold, but I have the cough,
and it's my turn to play God.
