Atkin-James
Of late I try to k** my payday evenings
In many an unrecommended spot
Curiosity accounting for a little
Loneliness accounting for a lot
The girls who pull the handles force their laughter
The casual conversation's not the best
Indifference accounting for a little
Unhappiness accounting for the rest
And the gardens of the heyday in Versailles
And Pompadour's theatre in the stairs
Should be created in my magic eye
From a jukebox and a stack of canvas chairs
But somehow we have failed to come through
The styles are gone to seed, no more parades
There seems to be no talk of me and you
No breath of scandal in these sad arcades
Concerning us there are no fables
No brilliant poems airily discarded
Just liquid circles on formica tables
A silence perhaps too closely guarded
Outside a junkie tries to sell his girl
Her face has just begun to come apart
Look hard and you can see the edges curl
Speed has got her beaten at the start
And what care these two for a broken heart?
The lady's calling Time and she is right
My time has come to find a better way
A surer way to navigate at night
The poetic age has had its day
In midnight voices softer than a dove's
We shall talk superbly of our lost loves