Rolling a Pall Mall in the courtyard,
of Ye Olde Swiss Cottage Tavern,
in the last of November's sun:
Filling me warmly with joy.
Thinking of our desires,
from summer and autumn months,
up to this bright November morning,
we have happily danced,
e'en in the shadows.
Above me two brick turrets,
as I dreamily smoke,
nonchalantly satate: 'Underground'.
High-raised logos winking at our play,
struck through with horizontal blue,
in a circle of enamel white.
'Old Fool,' the towers hiss,
directed at my mortal sensibilities,
'winter has come!'
But nothing buries us
as our sun still comfortingly kindles
a friendly star
which when all is dark,
guiding the shipwreck of my sunken years
- the debts and all those unpaid thrills!
Dreaming and Loving,
as children out,
lost in an abundant *****,
each holding off for as long as we dare,
naked before suffocating paternity,
and cold winter's bite!
where to we hardly know,
to avoid its cruel embrace.