On the avenue of the lost where you can buy souls at cost and the man plays the spoons on his hands and his knees, where the trees are stood bare, naked and where the juggler spins plates on three poles there's a cafe I know where the port noses go for a snifter or two of home brew and you met me there.

In the rarity of time that we get
we met
and I knew that you were the one.
With the clickety clack of the spoons at our back
and the smashing of plates in our ears
the years carried on
until the lost had all gone
and we were the only two there,
under the bare tree,
wondering where we
would go on from here.