A glossed window, dark pool,
lake Excalibur,
a phantom face swims before her
and it makes for an interesting study of character.

Rain swells and soaks on the sidewalk,
so she trips away on slick heels.
If she does her hair just right,
will a white knight find her?
She wishes he would jolly well hurry up.

So, back in an empty flat,
she darkens her lashes and rouges her knees,
she misses those starlit, champagne yesterdays.
One day she will tango into his arms.

Take up your fur coat,
don the little black suit of armour.
I hate to say it:
I don’t think he’s coming yet, sweetheart.