The cafe was humming, like a hive of bees,
Twilight painting its brushstrokes, dark blue, on blue,
Cigarette smoke, swirling, like wraiths to the ceiling,
Aromas of espresso and firewater, perfume the air.
A wild-eyed lady enters, screeching, at her husband’s lover,
All eyes turn for distraction, as she drags him home by his hair.
A grizzled, chestnut, bear of a man, sat in the corner,
Commences playing a lilting tune on his harmonica,
Whilst a young cub accompanies, with a rhythmic beat
His knuckles rapping the table, his boots tapping the floor.
And unknown to all there, an elegant lady stands,
Clutching a blood red rose, between her small white hands,
She begins to sing, her voice, soaring high above the music,
Telling us, that you can smell the fragrance of the moon.
And when it rains, Lisbon has such perfume,
Of the promised land, the smell of flowers and the sea.
And how lips carry the perfumes of your smiles,
Young men go wild, over the fragrance of girls
And as the music fades she tosses her curls,
To thunderous claps, and reality intrudes, to
Three wrinkled wise men, arguing over football.
The harlot winks, and men fall to buy her drinks,
A group of wives gesticulate, and throw up their eyes
Now under the blanket of black starlit skies,
As the amber lights of the cafe, warms the lives inside.