I was half way through a West End run, getting the nightly obligatory chuckle on the name of our dear lady prime minister, when she very inconsiderately resigned. Since which time, not a titter. What, so you mean, rewrite the verse? At that rate, Iíd be changing the lyrics every eleven years.
No loving looks, no fond regards.
Tonight was always on the cards.
I like big muscles. You were thin and lanky.
I like nice manners. You were far too cranky.
You blew your nose and then looked in your hanky.
The day I met you was a real heart-wrencher.
I thought that love would be a big adventure,
Then I saw the spinach on your bottom denture.
I wanted champagne and oysters,
Rapportís a thing you just canít manufacture.
You had your pin-up girl, I couldnít match her.
I didnít want to: it was Mrs Thatcher.
I wanted love to come and knock our blocks off.
But even Venus takes her card and clocks off.
Your idea of foreplay was to take your socks off.
I wanted moonlight and roses
I wanted love poems but you couldnít write them,
My ear lobes nibbled but you wouldnít bite them.
Youíd only fart and then attempt to light them.
Weíre not compatible. Letís not get blue, dear.
At least we see each otherís point of view, dear.
I like big hunky men, and so do you, dear.
© Victoria Wood, 1987
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