F-Hole - Squeeze

I wrote her name on a bar mat

She had a peculiar bonnet

But a youngish damsel figure

With her tongue tied to a trigger

She seemed a total killer

Her face all filled with filler

Her face a painting palette

I stomached all her habits

Sipped her snow balls poshly like a judge

But left her lipstick traces on her mug

We watched each other closely

She looks like Bela Lugosi

She asked me for a ride home

I felt around for my comb

And in the bar room mirror

I combed right through her figure

She wiggled through the car park

Into the pit of my heart

Sat herself beside me in my van

A ring on every finger of her hand

She lived down by the river

A flat the council give her

Wallpaper very scenic

Her outlook very beatnik

We watched the close and weather

Then through the door he entered

Short sleeves and arms of iron

And me with just my tie on

She said the lodger’s used to this by now

I’d handled all the bull but not the cow

Behind her velvet sofa

I found myself back sober

She kept an old acoustic

She never ever used it

A gift for me with a capo

A six string with an f-hole

We made the strangest couple

A Laurel and Hardy double

I learnt to play her favourite country songs

With one or two chords always going wrong