I Was Once a Weak Man

He is clean, but not too clean His breath fresh, but not too fresh These are the results of a shower without soup And just one pellet of gum He carefully returns his second phone To his refuge beneath the front room floor Gently flattens the rug ontop and strips down to his underwear He find his wallet, filled with the credit cards he hasn't used And lays it on the kitchen counter in its familiar place To be found in the morning by a curious consort Like fiends, we rise from the tomb of love It's the curse of fools to be secure We are sportsmen, we are conquerers The day is disease and night the cure He never uses names That's too dangerous He calls them baby and sweet cheeks and hot stuff and darling And he's a master of the feigned surprise A doyen of deception Sometimes he wonders if he could have been on the telly He really is that good Like fiends, we rise from the tomb of love It's the curse of fools to be secure We are sportsmen, we are conquerers The day is disease and night the cure He knows the quiet floorboards Knows exactly where to tread Even in this state, his muscle has memory He's a tiptoeing Travolta, a minging Michael Jackson Lighting up the timbers underfoot And as he silently approaches the bedroom door He wonders, as always, if maybe he's getting too old for this But, as always, he concludes Well, Mick Jagger does it and he's older than me