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On the bleakest day autumn could muster
In a church to which they’ll not return
I thought back to a time when I could trust her
To a time when there wasn’t John Byrne
And in a cruel twist of fate which so often
Occurs in tales such as this
I found myself catering reception
And there were urges I had to resist
Not least ‘cos John Byrne is much fitter
And the straightener to him holds no fears
So if the chocolate in the fountain tastes bitter
It’s because it’s been laced with my tears
Celebrations were well underway when
Her father prayed silence and spoke
He said: «It's not like I’m losing a daughter»
As violently starting to choke
And in a gesture which said I’m fast fading
Could somebody dial 999?
He valiantly toasted my capers
With a glass of what he thought was wine
It was gone half past ten before folk cottoned on
By which time I’d landed in Wick
So if what’s in the fondue’s to die for
It’s got nothing to do with the cheese
And if what’s in the punchbowl seems lethal
It’s because it’s two thirds anti-freeze