all me own work
Oh, Martin Turner, you’re all bloody mouth and no
Cycling by on your paper round, like you’re it
My pulse quickens as you put the Standard through
You weedy fourth year, you.
I get lost in your brown eyes, and
my homework blurs before me as
I think about you touching my skin.
The world suddenly such a clearer
You asking my bra size at the disco,
my platform heels turning to jelly,
longing for you to find out first hand.
But after whispering breathily in your ear,
you just went back to your mates, laughing raucously.
38 D never enticed you back.
You could have had everything –
upstairs, downstairs, the lot.
I wouldn’t have minded
But when you went outside with that bitch, Sarah
Turning your back on someone who could
actually fill a bra?!
My doorstep offering so much more than mere
Now you shout out 38D as you whizz
past on your stupid bike - so do half the town.
You’re a meano, but I’d still let you see for yourself.