At sweet sixteen, I bought home, a handsome fella called Hustle,
Last of the punks, his T shirt ripped, and hair all of a tousle.
‘Come in and meet the parents. Sure you can stay for tea’.
Well, if looks could kill, id be dead on the floor, at the way they both looked at me.
We left there pretty sharpish and headed for the boozer.
True he had been sleeping rough but he certainly wasn’t a loser
When I got home, after a good night out, the living room was spinning.
From all the booze and funny fags, I couldn’t stop from grinning.
Until . . . ,.
WHO THE HELL WAS THAT!!!!
Referring to my hunky punk, I thought this rather rude,
I think they hoped this was a phase that I was going through.
Homeless, but proud was he, of his tent on the coastal path
Outstanding views, acres of land, and a wonderful sea salt bath
Sue, come abide with me in this idyllic seaside location
Not bloody likely, was my peeved parent’s quotation
They did find common ground with they’re hate for Lady Maggie.
‘Bloody Bitch’, they would shout, when she came on the tele.
The romance finally ran its course, much to my parents pleasure,
But Hustle Tartan coming to tea, is a memory I’ll always treasure