There's a storm inside a phone box, there's a butterfly in the pub.
The lightning strikes a lucky number, the insect grinds a glowing stub.
In the middle of a game of pool, the old telephone rings.
The butterfly grabs the receiver, the words "Hello, storm!" it sings.
To anyone who's watching, it might well look rather odd,
But they have a long hard gossip about football, strings and God.

There's a painting in her mailbox, there's a hamster in her bed,
And a spade hangs from the ceiling, every day she bangs her head.
There's a trumpet in her bathtub, there's some shampoo in her fleece,
She stands photos on her sofa while she sits on the mantel piece.
She finds batteries in her freezer, on her bookcase there's a knife,
But she rejoices in the chaos, since there's a man in her life.

The writer sips her orange, emits a hacking coughing sound,
And blows her nose with a tissue which she then drops on the ground.
Her eyelids droop, her stomach swells into a painful dome,
And her brain seems to have gone to school while she is stuck at home.
But she lifts her pen and writes again, knowing it could be much worse.
There's a lot to be said, after all, in writing nonsense verse.

Tempting as it may be, if you itch you must not scratch,
And the best way to get your ears burnt is to listen to a match.
The star-crossed lover answers the phone just before it rings.
"Hey," she laughs, "it must be love, we're thinking the same things."
And the double-glazing salesman laughs too at the other end,
And they natter on 'bout flowers and towers - it's nice to have a friend.

There's voices in your pocket, there's bus tickets in your ear,
And there's ice cubes in your attic and there's cobwebs in your beer.
There's teaspoons in your frying pan and sausages in your tea,
There's my thoughts in the computer while there's floppy disks in me.
And the teenage girl falls in love when she sips that poisoned drink,
With her step father, her Maths teacher, a pop star and her shrink.

But the writer isn't like that, because for her love equals hate.
When she notices she's falling it is already too late.
She tells herself she hates him, she knows that he doesn't care,
But every time she checks her mind, the thoughts of him are there.
So until he walks out of her life, he'll occupy her head.
Love is such a waste of time, why can't she... play pool instead?

There's staples in her windscreen, there's paperclips on her seat,
There's drawing pins in the mirror, there's chalk dust beneath her feet.
Pencil shavings in the engine, elastic bands in the gear box.
And there's stickers on the steering wheel and superglue on the locks.
She drowns in HB pencils when she opens up the boot,
But it's really very funny, she will smile and laugh and hoot

But her lover on the Internet says, "Are we going to meet?"
She walks round the house and cleans her shoes, then wipes and scrubs her feet.
Will he love her if she's thinner? Will he love her if she's tall?
Will he love her unconditionally? Will he not love her at all?
She returns to the computer and her heart is made of lead.
"Yes, I guess," is what she told him. "I can't wait," is what he said.

But the writer does not get too close, she has to stay apart.
If she's going to be a writer then she cannot have a heart.
There's people everywhere she goes and everywhere she's been,
There's people living in her head and those behind the screen,
There's people in her stereo and people on her shelf,
But if she's going to be a writer, then she must stay by herself.

She takes the pins out of mirror and fiercely pokes them through his nose.
"His eyes for triple twenty!" is what she cackles, then she throws.
But the careless love-struck butterfly is punctured by the dart.
And the mellowed happy thunderstorm feels stabbing in its heart.
So it bursts out of the phone booth and it slams the glass door shut.
Then it gives a sneeze and knocks down trees and telephone lines are cut.

The saleman's conversation comes to an untimely end,
And the lover hangs up sighing, for she's lost her only friend.
The bloke picking up pencils from the empty parking lot
Is deafened by the thunder and with a lightning bolt is shot.
And the needy depressed teenager knows her true love has died,
So she jumps off a tall building, thus committing suicide.

Now the cruel merciless writer's evil laughter will resound.
The house is shook by "BWAHAHA!" (like noises in a swound).
"All you people come and go (talking of Michelangelo),
But sooner or later you will know what it's like to be alone."
And her day-off drains through paperclip chains
And waiting to hear the phone.