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He'd found her on the floorThey'd had to sell the sofaThe children had departedBut beer won't buy itselfHe'd kissed her on the cheekAnd placed her palms togetherIf furniture is sadnessThen he would celebrate herHe'd phoned in sick for yearsBut no-one ever answeredAnd pressed against the mouthpieceHe practiced sounding hoarseHe'd phoned in sick for yearsBut no-one thought to tell himThe plant had relocatedAnd moved to SolihullHe passed her on the stairsThe second time that eveningShe'd died at dinner partiesBut never literallyInstead of common senseHer parents gave her whiskyAnd that is why she loves themAnd that is why he loves herHe'd phoned in sick for yearsLetras de cancionesBut no-one ever answeredAnd pressed against the mouthpieceHe practiced sounding hoarseHe'd phoned in sick for yearsBut no-one thought to tell himThe plant had relocatedAnd moved to SolihullHe was the final final final final final finalThought in a mind unused to joySteadied himself in the highest windWith the ass of a former athleteSwept back Joe Pesci's hairJoe Pesci's hairWho is Joe Pesci?I think I know his face from films about Italian thugsBut did he crawl among us as a saint?Did he crawl among us as a saint? From Letras Mania