turntechdickhead And I’m wearing red-bottomed pumps and I’ve got victory rolls in my hair, the dress is probably brand new and tea length and I don’t even mind that you’re ruining it with the grit from your uniform because Mrs. Dickhead is a kept woman again.
Then there’s the kiss that’s felt around the world, that puts the forced peck on the postcards beneath the fireworks to shame, complete with the lady’s lifted calf as she pops up to kiss your tall unshaven ass. She doesn’t mind the scruff now, but she knows that you won’t feel fully at home until your cleanshaven jaw has returned as well.
I don’t even jump into your arms, I carry you from the shipyard to our Bentley, where the kids are waiting and cling to your legs like austerity-hardened koala bears, because it’s been years since D-Day and they truly feared they’d never see you again.
