A WIMBLEDON WIDOWER'S LAMENT
by
Steve Morris

Just call me the Wimbledon Widower
You needn't be knowin' mi name
Mi life's been thrown into turmoil
On account o' some bloody daft game.

Fer about fourteen days every Summer
Mi marriage gets given the chop
When mi wife tunes in to the tennis
An' she watches the telly non-stop.

It doesn't seem t' matter who's playin'
Or if they've been seeded or not
If it's singles or doubles or trebles
She'll Sit an' she'll watch every shot.

Now, perhaps I shouldn't be tellin'
But mi love life's gone right up the spout
An' it does some peculiar things to a chap
When he thinks he's been goin' without.

So I thought I'd create an impression
Wi' a bit o' what's known as romance
I brought home a Chinese an' a few cans o' Skol
An I put on some clean underpants.

Well, we had our meal (wi' t' telly on)
Then moved over to the settee
Where I slipped mi arm around her waist
An' mi hand I placed on her knee

Her reaction to my advances
Was just about the best yet
"Will ya get a grip a' your urges man
Rusedski's servin' fer t' set"

Well, I hate that Greg Rusedski
An' I hate that Michael Chang
An' I hate Sir Cliff soddin' Richard
An' them poxy songs what he sang

An' as fer teenage billionaires
I begrudge 'em ev'ry last cent
An' Desmond Lynam's paid too much
An' so is t' Duke o' Kent

Well it's finals this comin' weekend
So I'm goin' to bugger off out
I'm puttin' mi hikin' boots on
An' I'm headin' up Kinder Scout

Where there's no prima donnas an' tantrums
No umpires an' no dodgy calls
An' I won't go bright green wi' envy
When Henman gets given new balls

But I think I'd better get used to all this
Even though it's makin' me vexed
Cos we've got a subscription to cable TV
An' t' Mongolian Open's on next

There's a moral attached to mi story
To ignore it could be yer downfall
Never get wed to a Wimbledon fan
'Cos love'll mean nothin' at all.