And it was him at the bridge,
She knew it, with some dame she
Didn’t know, kissing hot and
Embracing close, if only
She’d gone another way or
Washed her hair, she’d not have seen
And have been ignorant of
His betrayal and the deep
Feelings of hurt and slap and
A broken heart and never
Again to kiss those lips or
Hold his hand or dream of him
At nights as she had before,
If only he’d been far more
Discreet or had her elsewhere
Or not at all, yes, it was
Him at the bridge, his way of
Standing with those ready lips,
Those deep blue eyes; when she woke
Up from her dream she’d give him
Hell for kissing that darn girl.
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