Love in a pestle
A love song of the worst kind.
She will not look up.
We know how she got those black eyes.
Dressed in black and hooded,
trying to effect some sort of disguise.
And she thinks she can handle it,
When she’s young.
And she’s not so sure
when he’s done.
And if this is love,
she thinks,
the worst is yet to come.
Her boys a brick shit house,
his fists are the door.
That she keeps falling to,
on the way down to the floor.
Like a good keen kiwi bloke,
she takes it on the chin.
Drowns herself over the years,
down the clubroom with beer and gin.
Epilogue:
Outside the courtroom waiting,
she looks down and says,
“if you don’t want a kicking tonight,
when you see Dad, get well away.”
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