Like some crappy club populated by underage mothers
In the sink, one washing up glove
And a burst birthday balloon – deflated love
In the bathroom the toilet brush is upside down
Bristles up, hair like the ghost of Amy Winehouse
And a hundred empty bottles of cheap shampoo
Filled with fetid water that smells worse than the loo
There’s rats in the lounge spreading scabies up the stairs
I think we’ve had a baby, but no one seems to care
The TV’s stuck on Top Gear, the remote in half a glass of beer
The microwave has cooked the cat / the toaster smells like a builder’s bum crack.
And I hear couples my age / Tell us that we’ve made a mistake, that their house is the best, that all they do is tidy and cuddle and kiss. But I ask them this – does Domestic Bliss Exist?