I’m not a party person. I’d rather stay at home.
I never have much fun in a corner all alone.
I like the mini quiches, the dips and sausage rolls,
But the company is rubbish, and the girls are just fat moles.
I end up getting drunk and hiding in the loo.
Well, if you looked like me you’d probably do that too.
I’m not the sort of person that people like to meet.
Maybe it’s the beard or my strangely smelling feet.
I’m happy back at mine just watching Doctor Who.
There’s matchstick boats to make and ironing to do.
I make myself lasagna and settle down on the settee.
I’m happy to be quiet, happy just being me.
And really if you’re honest, you hate parties as well.
You go because you have to, but really know they’re hell.
You get pissed and do things that next day you’ll regret.
And have the kind of evening you’d much rather forget.
At least I can admit it: I think parties are poo.
Home is more relaxing, be honest, it’s so true.
So all you party people can take a running leap.
And I’ll just stay at home and catch up on my sleep.
I’ve always liked a tea; it’s my favourite by far.
And not those nasty tea bags, but tea leaves from a jar.
Tea smooths out all the creases and eases all the joints.
It’s better than that reiki, for soothing pressure points.
I’m not that keen on coffee, I’ve never liked the taste.
And three dollars for a latte, well that seems like such a waste.
Jack loved a nice hot cuppa, with a sugar stirred just right.
He’d sit and watch his program, supping tea most every night.
I was taking him a mug, when I found him that cold day.
I dropped it from the shock, and the biscuits, and the tray.
He was lying on his back with his feet in the rose bed.
Starring up at the big sky, and I knew that he was dead.
When the ambulance men came, I offered my special tea.
They were gentle with my Jack and very sweet to me.
The woman from the parlour said she wanted hers with skim.
Did I want the coffin open, so folk could stare at him?
I didn’t like her manner nor the tattoo on her knee.
I offered her a biscuit and watched her eat all three.
I had tea served at the wake; there were some that wanted wine.
I didn’t think that that was right, tea suited Jack just fine.
I often think about them ladies, picking tea in India.
And wonder if they think of me, with my feet up in Jack’s chair.
When I’m drinking a nice cuppa, stirring my biscuit round,
I remember my poor Jack, lying cold under the ground.
I hope that he’s in heaven, dunking biscuits just like me.
On a brown sea of satisfaction, an eternity of tea.