A fire raged in the darkness that resembled a postcard sent from hell
It was destroying the once beautiful vision that was the old town Carousel
Large striking white horses that in the past stood like angels in the night
Were all now fiercely burning as they cast an eerie sight
The smell of the charred wood and the plume of ash in the air
Left a tearjerking memory to the workers on the fair
A disturbing insight into mindlessness certain people possess
The flames rose in the air caused by those who couldn’t care less
Blistering heat was getting stronger with every hour that past
The sounds of loud sirens finally filled the air at last
Gone was the wonderful paintwork resembling times gone by
Now there were black patches that made the ancients cry
What now for the old Carousel?
With so many stories yet to tell

He had a tearjerking smile
A temper,
A medal,
An offering of soap
And a knack for loyalty.
In letters
He called me
Old Sport.

And she
Was a film star
Who could paint.

And there I am again the week end warrior,
Stood at the far end of a swooping bar
Back against a pillar waiting for the reassuring eye contact and that question like a nice warm jacket,
‘What’ll it be then’
Just a cider and black is all that’s on my mind between bouts of craving a cigarette.

And as always you are there at the other end of the bar,
Forever unable to synchronise our whereabouts in relation to one another.
The fluttering, feverish thought ***** through my mind of maybe you’re painfully aware of me and choose the opposite end.
The stunning innocence of your smile shot across the room when my presence is finally in your eye line suggests otherwise,
And then again who could possibly be as neurotic as me.

I obliviously cast my mind back in an involuntary tearjerking tale of a chance not taken.
Sat on a dodgy bench, in our dodgy pub, having a dodgy conversation.
We sit drunkenly telling secrets until we stumble across a kiss.
That perfect moment could have made time stand still but in the nature of the real wold everything carried on rotating.

The night panned out into our separation to our different locations forgetting to grab a number or even a surname.
That moment forever to be a memory rather than a relivable situation and that casual smile being the last form of communication, constantly holding on thinking maybe this week the weekend warrior won’t be the weekend worrier.

A sudden flash back into reality by the name of ‘£3.80 please love’ the quick change of hands and it’s back to the tribe of mine in the smoking area and you’re back to the pool table.

Maybe your smile is worth the change I leave behind distracted by it, I wouldn’t know I haven totted it up.