The Waiting Room.
Some people say, there’s always a way, to furtively sit and to sit stare.
So across the room, sat amidst the gloom, let’s do him, let’s do him over there.
I’ll look at his eyes, and the size of his thighs, and the terrible state of his hair.
His teeth, they look grey, well not white anyway, and his nose is all sweaty and bare.
He’s growling at me, I’ll look at my knee, and pretend that I don’t know he’s there.
He’s starting to stand, so I look at my hand and then shuffle the back of my chair.
He’s coming towards me I pick at my cords, trying not to look up, I won’t dare
I feel his cold breath baring down on my neck as I lean down and dangle my hair
And then I look up, feeling trapped like a cup, his face is an inch from my glare
But he licks my whole chin, he’s a spaniel called Vin, so I stroke through his friendly old fur.