Days of broken nights and dancing cheese?
Of plastic lungs and smoky smiles?
Of drunken miles with dirty dimes?
And of psycho rhymes?
Golden songs fail to please,
and what of floating sheets?
Tunes in buckets
and painful heels.
Isn't it that time of the year for you?
You with your sly-cream eyes,
and the rum-kissed miles.
The cigar streets
and the heavy beats.
The stringy suits
with the muddy shoes...
isn't it that time of the year again for you?
