D.I.Y....F.S With his brushes cleaned and ready, he embarks upon his task He surveys the blank white canvas, but one question he must ask This job it would be hard enough, but he so sincerely wished He'd not spent the night before it , drinking vodka, getting pissed So he stares in blank denial, of which paint he is to use His glare so fixed upon her, but no signal from his muse He realises he must say it, so to find out where he's at "So Claire my love please tell me, is it satin, is it matte?" She rolls her eyes frustrated and casts a withering look An initial pang of drinkers guilt, but he then thinks "What the fuck!" With a pounding head repeating, stabbing needles he is feeling And the last thing that he needs today, is to paint this fucking ceiling So he lifts the paint tray swiftly, from its place atop the ladder And smashed it on her ungrateful head, with such a sickening clatter And the last thing that she thought, as her head hit the bookshelf Was if you want a job doing right, then do it your fucking self