Band Of Gold

"Cut the cake! Cut the cake!"
I name this marriage "dead".
Why don't we just pack up now
And knock it on the head?

They won't last, he's not the sort
To do things round the flat.
She's not the kind of woman
Who'll be satisfied with that.

They'll be at each other's throats
Before the month is done.
They've both got tempers on them,
They don't argue for fun.

He listens to his indie rock,
An avid Spurs supporter.
She prefers some Simply Red
And going round Bluewater.

Her girlie nights out coincide
With his lads' beer soirees.
They never go to the same bars,
Neither really worries

Where the other is at night,
If alive or dead.
Their social lives are separate,
The only thing they share...
Is a bed!