Swing It Out!

The friend you brought has ditched you at the hop
And on the stage the band is out of tune.
Beyond the doors the lawn sucks in the moon;
You daydream's curdled, with a skin on top.

And all the voices speak in tongues; you know
No person there but one, and she is out...
Just fat old fogies asking you about
Yourself that, when you answer, turn and go –

And you waltz round the room with a woman in furs
    And your acorn is hell and damnation
And your friend has departed with somebody else
    So you limp seven miles to the station.

It's just your luck the last train doesn't come;
It's cancelled for a lack of units. Still,
The station's fairly sheltered, so you will
Sit out those six short hours. Cold and numb

You board next morning and blow into town.
At home you find the bathroom mirror's cracked
And there's a letter that you will be sacked,
Because the pound is up, and profit down...

And your shoes are yawning, and the moth
    Is in your Oxford blazer
And when the dole comes rolling in
    You buy a nice strop for your razor.