I'll meet you by your garden gate
I'll come at eight, I won't be late
I will not knock upon your door
Your father answered it before.
He slowly looked me up and down
His face congealed into a frown
"I don't want any, go away"
"And don't come back another day"
"I'm here to see Marie," I said
And proudly lifted up my head
I thought that if I stood my ground
He'd think me brave, and come around.
Instead he said "What's on your head?"
"Is it alive, or is it dead?"
"No, that's my hair, sir," I replied
He laughed so much he nearly cried.
I'd spent a mint on styling gel
And put some highlights in, as well
For him to castigate my hair
Was very rude, and most unfair.
Then he started on my clothes
"Where the hell did you buy those?"
I would have said "a high street store"
But he was laughing even more.
I couldn't see it getting better
Standing there just getting wetter
Did I not say that it was raining?
Honestly, I'm not complaining.
I turned and left, respectfully
I heard him laugh hysterically
So, I'll meet you by your gate
I'll come at eight, I won't be late.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
