F-Hole

F-Hole
(Difford/Tilbrook)

I wrote her name on a bar mat
She had a peculiar barnet
But a youngish damsel figure
With her tongue tied to a trigger
She seemed a total killer
Her face all filled with filler
Her face a painting palette
I stomached all her habits
Sipped her snowballs poshly like a judge
But left her lipstick traces on her mug

We watched each other closely
She looks like Bela Lugosi
She asked me for a ride home
I felt around for my comb
And in the bar room mirror
I combed right through her figure
She wiggled through the car park
Into the pit of my heart
Sat herself beside me in my van
A ring on every finger of her hand

She lived down by the river
A flat the council give her
Wallpaper very scenic
Her outlook very beatnik
We watched the close and weather
Then through the door he entered
Short sleeves and arms of iron
And me with just my tie on
She said the lodger’s used to this by now
I’d handled all the bull but not the cow

Behind her velvet sofa
I found myself back sober
She kept an old acoustic
She never ever used it
A gift for me with a capo
A six string with an f-hole
We made the strangest couple
A Laurel and Hardy double
I learnt to play her favourite country songs
With one or two chords always going wrong

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