I walk along the Strand

to catch the late ride home.

Shuttle through the evening gloom

knowing I forgot to phone.

The back door's open.

There's a chill blowing in.

Take your warm hands off me.

Let the night begin.

Shush your mouth.

Listen to me.

I won't say nothing ---

just let me be your

toad in the hole.



Kicking through the wet leaves lying

all along the Station Road.

Past tired graffitti wailing,

raw emotion to unload.

There's coal in the fireplace

and money in the bank too.

Deep-pile carpets, tinsel wallpaper.

Still got the back room to do.

Don't be late.

Got a day's work behind me.

Feel a little devastated

but my nights are assigned to you.



Toad in the hole.



No tom-cat creeping, now

could ever be so bold

to hang around our place tonight

when I come in from the cold.

There's a straight-six in the garage

and some fine wine to cool.

Labour-savers in the kitchen,

room in the garden for a pool.

Shush your mouth.

Let imagination run

here in bed-sit heaven

where all the best wishing's done

to warm toad in the hole.