My mate Jake reckons it’s great
to turn up for dinner fashionably late
despite us arranging to meet at eight
I’m still staring down at an empty plate
with nothing on which to ruminate
besides how much I fucking hate Jake for making me wait.
The reason I hate Jake for making me wait
lies in his failure to appreciate
that if I’m on time then he should reciprocate
rather than act like a selfish ingrate
so I’ve got no qualms in telling him straight
that there’s fuck all fucking fashionable about being late.
There’s fuck all fucking fashionable about being late
which is something I’d like to reiterate
since we all exist in a temporal state
and the clock clicks on at a constant rate
till the stroke of nine when as if by fate
in strolls Jake my cunt of a mate.