I walk along the Strand to catch the late ride home. Shuttle through the evening gloom knowing I forgot to phone. The back door's open. There's a chill blowing in. Take your warm hands off me. Let the night begin. Shush your mouth. Listen to me. I won't say nothing --- just let me be your toad in the hole.
Kicking through the wet leaves lying all along the Station Road. Past tired graffitti wailing, raw emotion to unload. There's coal in the fireplace and money in the bank too. Deep-pile carpets, tinsel wallpaper. Still got the back room to do. Don't be late. Got a day's work behind me. Feel a little devastated but my nights are assigned to you.
Toad in the hole.
No tom-cat creeping, now could ever be so bold to hang around our place tonight when I come in from the cold. There's a straight-six in the garage and some fine wine to cool. Labour-savers in the kitchen, room in the garden for a pool. Shush your mouth. Let imagination run here in bed-sit heaven where all the best wishing's done to warm toad in the hole.
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