The bed’s a mess when we’re finished and at rest, and I can just see the post-fuck flush across your chest
The telly’s silent, the room’s lit only by the screen, and now we’re perfect moulds with just our pulses in between

Well I’m not listening to what my mother said - what we’re doing inside my bed
And I’m not pretending this time you’re someone else, but I’m cleaning these sheets all by myself

Afterwards is best you get up to get dressed - I think your pants are by the door I think tomorrow we might be sore

Even in this light, your tits look white against the tanning, and I know we’re a couple now ’cause we went down the family planning
It hit me in the waiting room waiting for you when you were getting what you need
But I can’t help be a bit disappointed when you start to bleed

Afterwards is best you get up to get dressed - I think your pants are by the door I think we might be sore