The other woman will never have his love to keep; Everyone's mistress, nobody's wife, Everyone's bridesmaid, nobody's bride, that's what he thought of you.

The other woman enchants her clothes with French perfume.

And when your man comes to call. He finds you waiting like a lonesome queen, rotting in the sofa. A small hickey visible on his neck, the smell of woman's perfume lingers in the air. "Hi, honey" he said, a hint of apathy on his tone. "Lets get this over with, let's go to bed"