She met him and he met her
on a street called saint lucifer.
But what they did wasn’t wicked;
just a pot of tea and the odd dunked biscuit.
Both would flirt with riskless danger
with childish dreams away in a manger.
She was hitched and so was he.
Both would talk of being free.
Neither of their partners knew
that every so often they shared a brew.
After all, it wasn’t betrayal.
Hardly a crime befitting of jail.
But what went down on Saint Lucifer Street
when one said it was better not to meet
left one of them feeling much the worse
with trust misplaced and a devilish curse.