My Mother’s Handbag

My Mother’s Handbag
(Difford/Hewerdine)

I used to love the smell
Of my mother’s handbag
I wondered what was there inside
I once tried to sneak my hand in
To see what I could find
A packet of mints
A picture of me
A small leather purse
And a front door key

I used to love the taste
Of my mother’s dinners
Her Sunday roast was great
Silence fell upon the family
As the spuds fill our china plate
A piece of pie
A pot of cream
Doing the dishes
Our plates so clean

And I used to play beneath the table
While all her friends would pray
I was destined for the life of Riley
Not for the tears of Johnny Ray

I was always on my own
Secretly playing my make out games
Pushing my cars along the street
Playing with the firework flames
And Paul was young
And just like me
We sailed our boats
Way out to sea

And I used to play beneath the table
While all her friends would pray
I was destined for the life of Riley
Not for the tears of Johnny Ray

What a good boy
I had become
Tied to my mother’s apron strings
A simple life
Became highly strung
On a sofa with popped out springs
Here today
The lark ascends
Me and my life
Of imaginary friends

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