I had dear flat mate in two small cities.
We’d sit at home get drunk and write dities.
And I always remember he never got shirty,
When I helped him to crash his Beatle named Bertie.
And so to France across the sea on a boat.
He wore a berry and I a black coat.
We arrived at Ru De Bastille in a small room with a view,
And then headed south with a bag that was new.
We arrived back home one melancholy day.
To find our world was still there in it’s financial mess way.
And after the visit of the permanent power cut man.
I dropped him at Claud Street in a white transit van.