He’s fading out,
he’s fading in,
his minds a mess,
he’s unconscious,
he’s slovenly,
he’s upon the sofa,
with a grin,
throwing bottles at the television,
the same old terrible programs on again,
yes, he’s in there,
and maybe,
maybe you will get more sense from him,
because he’s your friend,
and I am just his wife,
but I am not anymore cut out for this life,
and soon to be honest,
I think I am going to pack it in,
yeah, I’ve had enough,
I have had enough of his slovenly ways,
and he no longer compliments me these days,
and all I get is the same din,
the roar of the television,
and that grin,
and I no longer love him,
I no longer love him,
but he’s in there,
and good luck with getting any sense out of him,
because he is dribbling,
and he’s drunk almost a bottle of whisky,
and a bottle of wine and far too much gin.

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