| Dear young Matt, | |
| why has fate turned you around, and upside down? | |
| You left a wife, a boy of mere nineteen winters gone, gone for long. | |
| It's well kosher that sunday roast I'll cook at nine. | |
| Come over, that brown eyed baby will be mine. | |
| Hitchin in Hertfordshire. | |
| Topless drinking Frostie Jack's. | |
| 'It will screw you over, sunshine.' | |
| Dear old Matt, | |
| why can love not suit you well? | |
| It's easy to dwell. | |
| It's well kosher that sunday roast I'll cook at nine. | |
| Just come over, that brown eyed baby will be mine. | |
| Your fever must break away. | |
| To flower, makes it hard to say. | |
| Just if you're lonely then throw that roast away. | |
| Put your shirt on, and see the light of day. |
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