Wedding Day Blues
Vicky, Vicky, Vicky Spooner,
by Paul Easton
I hear that it’s your wedding day.
If only I’d known it sooner,
Perhaps we might have run away –
We together, Daft and Dafter,
Borne upon a flood of laughter,
To some Happy Ever After,
Though fearful what the wife might say.
First to let me see her knickers
(Though we were both only eight)
And all for just a bar of Snickers:
You always were a cheapish date.
Later, praying couldn’t save us
From the clout your father gave us
When that tell-tale Malcolm Davies
Went and sealed our painful fate.
Bloody, bloody Malcolm Davies!
Did he say: ‘Please marry me’
Or did perhaps a bar of Snickers
Feature in his strategy.
Either way, who could expect a
Girl like you to just reject a
Coin-collecting tax inspector
(With a camper van) for me?
Is your hair strewn with confetti?
Has Malcolm helped you cut the cake?
If I came now, would you let me
Breach the vows you’ve had to make?
Or are you planning that extension,
A higher-yield stakeholder pension
Or ‘the Event’ I dare not mention
If only for my mental state?
If I’d been first to pop the question
Would you then have answered ‘Yes’;
When once I floated the suggestion,
You offered me a sweet caress;
But at the time I lacked the daring
To seek a future for my caring
And the kisses we’d been sharing
Had gained a certain sameyness.
So, Snicker-loving Vicky Davies,
I wish you well, both you and he,
But wait the high-heeled step I crave
Is hurrying past the cypress tree!
I rush to greet the door bell’s ringing,
My happy, hopeful heart is singing,
And there I meet my Frieda bringing
A couple of dead fish for tea.