When Simon kissed me on New Year's Eve
You really blew your top.
One would think I'd killed your prizewinning cat,
Or smashed your priceless Ming pot.
It was all so innocent, and nothing more
Than a simple vodka 'high'.
Yet it seems I'd committed such a terrible sin,
That you said you wished I'd die.
You accused me of making a fool of you
In front of your cling-on friends.
And then you gabbled some gobbledygook
About my needing to tie up loose ends.
Oh how the hypocrite's memory is short,
Because I can still clearly recall
Stumbling on you in the gamekeeper's hut
With Anna at that Summer Ball.
You explained it away as a comforting hug
For a friend who'd just buried her dog.
But I have to say, that hardly explains
The comment you left on her blog.
And when she returned from her gap year away
Beneath sunny skies of Corfu,
The baby she was oh-so-keen to show off
Was the splitting image of you!
So before you presume to criticise me,
Try looking to your own broken rule.
I have been so many things to you,
But I'll never be your fool.