Future Of The Left - My Wife Is Unhappy lyrics

He'd found her on the floor They'd had to sell the sofa The children had departed But beer won't buy itself He'd kissed her on the cheek And placed her palms together If furniture is sadness Then he would celebrate her He'd phoned in sick for years But no one ever answered And pressed against the mouthpiece He practiced sounding hoarse He'd phoned in sick for years But no one thought to tell him The plant had relocated And moved to Solihull He pa**ed her on the stairs The second time that evening She'd died at dinner parties But never literally Instead of common sense Her parents gave her whiskey And that is why she loves them And that is why he loves her He'd phoned in sick for years But no one ever answered And pressed against the mouthpiece He practiced sounding hoarse He'd phoned in sick for years But no one thought to tell him The plant had relocated And moved to Solihull My wife is unhappy My wife is unhappy She knows about the doctors And dreams with her brothers He was the final final final final final final thought in a mind unused to joy Steadied himself in the highest wind with the a** of a former athlete Swept back Joe Pesci's hair, Joe Pesci's hair, who is Joe Pesci? I think I know his face from films about Italian thugs But did he crawl among us as a saint? Did he crawl among us as a saint?