Pass another bottle, princess.
Red or white, I don't care which.
Or sparkling. Even corked, or sour.
I just want to forget the bitch.

When? Oh, when; well, "when," I s'pose.
You didn't need to pour for me.
You'd pour until it overflows.
Just take your own and let me be.

Is this cheap enough? You're sure?
It tastes like alcoholic piss.
My God, it's horrid. Is it safe?
How long have you been keeping this?

Whatever, if it does the job.
She seems to be receding now.
I'm sorry, I should shut my gob.
Oh God. The bitch. The bloody cow.

Sex? You're joking, aren't you, princess?
Each was on a different plane.
She was plotting pregnancy.
I had almost gone insane.

How's the cellar? Finished yet?
What's the time? Okay, one more.
A glass for you? Go on and let
Me drink myself into the floor.

Where was I? Oh yes, up Shit Creek.
She'd been and let herself get slack.
She didn't let me know for yonks.
Then one day, just as I got back

She blurted out "I'm pregnant, dear."
As if I needed dragging down.
I fetched myself a well-chilled beer
And told her "you're a fucking clown."

I told her to get into town
And fix herself to lose it quick.
She buggered off to town alright:
She stayed there. Hold on, I feel sick.

That's better. Is there any more?
It started to taste nicer then.
No? Never mind, you know the score:
I'd only start to cry again.