Testo And In Every Home

You turn to the sinister when you get the boot Sliding down the banister in your Sunday suit Lying on a slag heap of blankets and magazines She's only thirty-five going on seventeen You'd better roll over and go to sleep if you don't come clean And in every home there will be lots of time I will be all yours you might have been admired (And in every home there will be lots of time) They say they're very sorry but you are not desired Oh heaven preserve us Oh heaven preserve us Oh heaven preserve us Because they don't deserve us Holding your life in your hand With an artificial limp wrist And so a young blade becomes a has-been Looking for a new twist A year after the wedding he broke all their china plates He's in prison now she's running with his mates Sees him every Sunday And he asks her where she's been She's only thirty-five going on seventeen She's going to cop a packet if he ever finds her In between the sheets