I hear the stumbles and loud slurs of the Friday night,
I know you're home and not because you shouted "Honey, I'm home!"
You've crawled out from your hiding place with a bottle clinking in your hand.
I'm getting kind of sick, of those little lies you say, your maverick routine no longer baffles me.
The clock strikes midnight and you howl at the moon, you're karaoke royalty;
You've taken all the love songs and belched you way through them, rendering their meaning so effortlessly useless.
There is one thing I'd like to inform you dear neighbour, my dial tone has incredibly better pitch then you.
Two chimes creep in and I can hear you collapse in a heap of sobs outside my window,
You would slur how great the capturer of your heart was in stealing it away,
But dear neighbour did you forget, those times you fell asleep outside your door with nothing but alcohol keeping you going instead of your lover.
Oh well, who am I to stand in the way of young love's dream?
Instead I sit and impatiently listen to all the times you've messed up and how much you miss their 'right' cute arse.
Then I hear the loving compliments disfigure into a bitter rant on how they're an arsehole, a complete and utter lying cheating bastard, a pathetic waste of space that you won't waste your time on.
But when you turn around and look at the empty house and you continue on how much you miss them.
So what's the logical solution to this heartbreak dilemma of yours?
Ah yes the 2:30 am 'desperate plea' of the "I love you, take me back" variety;
I think you even spiced it up with a marriage proposal last week but in my sleep deprived state I can't seem to recall exactly what you said.
However, when the phone is hung up and the inevitable failure is apparent, you plan to turn over a new leaf.
But by next weekend, I see your intoxicated body weave up the path before collapsing on the grass;
You scream about how fast the earth is moving and you're various attempts to "slow the fucker down!" well you keep at it Superman.
After your emotions have settled down, you decide that dancing the night away to some slurred shanty song seems like a perfect idea to entertain me and the rest of the street at three in the morning,
And how can I disagree? After all you've got smooth moves even though they're from the 80's.
The emotional high is at its end and it seems it has rather unsettled your stomach,
You rush to your bushes and vomit it in them, is that a new gardening tip? I admit it's not my preferred way of growing my pansies but still you would know.
I hear you mumble something about never drinking again or that you shouldn't have drunk that last cocktail because it tasted dodgy.
I admit in my somewhat tired persona I almost believed you, you even convinced me when you were hungover. But we both know that doesn't count.
Alas however the evening's adventures have come to halt,
And with you comatose in your house, I can finally settle into a peaceful slumber,
And the clock only reads 4:07am!
It's not like I have work in fifty-three fucking minutes or anything.