It's always a loop - love.
Echoing in the chambers.

Her name tattooed across the night
by a drunken fool who lurches
into front gardens,
disturbing foxes and dustbins,
for some unrequited romancing
and a bit of dodging father's shoes.

That name will never be smudged
and the fool remains a fool, to chew
on flowers meant for his would-be wife
on their would-be wedding day,
when their would-be revellers would jig in
a marquee still folded in the back of a van.

And their song, sampled by his addled mind,
is dragged back into the studio,
remixed at a slower tempo,
he could re-record the back beat,
but he can never quite
remaster his soul.