A WIMBLEDON
WIDOWER'S LAMENT

by
Steve Morris

  Just call me the Wimbledon Widower
You needn't be knowin' mi name
Mi life's been thrown into turmoil
On account o' some bloody daft game.

Fer about fourteen days every Summer
Mi marriage gets given the chop
When mi wife tunes in to the tennis
An' she watches the telly non-stop.

It doesn't seem t' matter who's playin'
Or if they've been seeded or not
If it's singles or doubles or trebles
She'll Sit an' she'll watch every shot.

Now, perhaps I shouldn't be tellin'
But mi love life's gone right up the spout
An' it does some peculiar things to a chap
When he thinks he's been goin' without.

So I thought I'd create an impression
Wi' a bit o' what's known as romance
I brought home a Chinese an' a few cans o' Skol
An I put on some clean underpants.

Well, we had our meal (wi' t' telly on)
Then moved over to the settee
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