She was so much younger than he
And here they were, alone,
She all flesh and blood,
He all skin and bone.
All bristles, knees and hips
Skin as tight as vicar’s lips,
A slight smell of cheese,
They’d warned her there’d be nights like these.
She stood there with a duty to perform.
She stood there in her nurse’s uniform.

The old man was quite dead.
She drew the curtains round his bed.
Began to wipe the grime away,
As mothers will do every day,
She washed his ***** knees,
They’d warned her there’d be nights like these.
She scrubbed behind his ears
And stroked his head.
She combed his hair
And tucked him up in bed.
She thought about a goodnight kiss,
But no, not on nights like this.

If dead men dream then this was his:
He took that goodnight kiss
And dreamt of the wife he’d won,
Who’d touched him as the nurse had done.
He dreamt of days of bliss
Of when he never dreamt that there’d be nights like this.