No More Sunday Papers Songtext
von Peter Skellern

No more Sunday papers with my breakfast in bed
No more scowling faces with my scrambled egg
And no more "How′s your father?" on a Saturday afternoon
And I phoned you up to tell you it's not a day too soon

No more angry words ′cause I've been out all night
No more stepping over you to put out the light
And no more grinning mothers on our anniversary
And I phoned you up to tell you it means the world to me


No more dogs on my favourite chair
No more suits all covered in hair
Or overdone steaks when I've asked for them rare
And while we′re being frank, what about the Belgian grape?

No more smoking dogends ′cause you've spent all my dough
No more playing Scrabble ′cause we've no place to go
And no more cutting your toenails while you′re drinking my wine
I'm left with the magic of a really good time

No more dogs on my favourite chair
No more suits all covered in hair
Or overdone steaks when I′ve asked for them rare
And while we're being frank, what about the Belgian grape?


No more tangled ankles 'cause we′re both in one bath
No more telling jokes to you that don′t make you laugh
And no more endless feeling that I'm misunderstood
I phoned you up to tell you that I′m gone for good