Harry, you bastard, you've gone too far.
Unpaid loans and IOUs scribbled on beermats
in rowdy quayside dives - I can take all that.
Even the friends you swore at, my girlfriend
you stole and dumped in Paris,  the shirts
you borrowed and lost in sundry flats
and parties; the beer you took from my fridge;
the appointments never kept; the upchucks
in my bathroom, kitchen, garden; the blood
on my jeans from the fights you started - 
all that is so many empties in the bin
and all forgiven though not forgotten.
But my car and credit cards - that's too much, Harry,
I'll have your blood in a bucket.