Sunday morning
Woke up in a strange bed
The sheets are too sticky
What’s wrong with my head
The Sahara desert on my tongue
I’ve got sand in my eye
There is an empty place next to me
I’m worried I don’t lie

There is mould on the walls
The wardrobe from MFI
The doors are askew
A black dress hangs cold
It has sequins
Like it was 1966
A toilet flushes somewhere
Maybe she has the shits
A screaming kid
In another room
Oh fuck what have I done
She must be a single mum
Too scared to leave this room
The windows made from wood
Condensation on the pane
It doesn’t look too good
I recognise the fittings
All cheap and Barrett like
Breeze block and wood chip paper
Must be on a council estate
Some brat kicks a ball
Against the paper thin wall
On the shit filled green lawn
On this horrific Sunday
There must be rice crispies
The cheap kind from the discount shop
The ones that are too soggy
And can’t be arsed to pop
I hear a toaster click
Spewing out the stale bead
The sour milk and brown sugar
What’s wrong with my head
I get out of bed
My feet on the filthy thin carpet
Too many clothes abandoned
The stench of alcohol and cigarettes
Staring out of the broken window
The outlook was grim
Pouring with rain on a grey estate
Why did the bad guys let me in
The door opened medusa was there
In her pink dinosaur pyjamas and greasy hair
She said some old joke and handed me tea
In a dirty cracked mug full of tea leaves
I was dying to pee
But I was scared what I would find
In the pink fluffy bathroom
I need to get outside
But the paper thin door
Had too many bolts
Even the letter box
Had it’s own secret code
I heard a dog growl
From inside it’s lair
The old abandoned Ford Cortina
Without wheels floating out there
Trapped in purgatory
No way out
Seduced and imprisoned
By the black sequinned dress
How much did I drink
To fall into this trap
That’s when I realised
That I felt like crap
So I grabbed my clothes
Obviously I put them on
I headed to the back door
Saying so long
I didn’t see it coming
The lard filled frying pan
Hit me on my weak spot
I was laying on the floor again
Medusa dragged me back to bed
Stripped me of my clothes
Did what she had to do
So beware of the sequinned dress
On a Saturday night
You might ended up on a council estate
Without your mates
In the creaking bed
And the too sticky sheets
With her cheap sickly perfume from Boots
Oh what is wrong with my head