Tuesday, July 13, 2010


The Street on which we're walking,
Was busy as an after hours bar,
Passing through the crowds
And the leaflet touts
And the silver silly arses standing still for coins

Students and Tourists and scooter teens
And all weaving through the stalls of junk
The kids may wanna buy something,
Something like a bright plastic water gun
A memory of a far-off land,
A memento from a different culture,
A souvenir, I think the word is,

Somehow I don't really feel abroad,
As I stick a fork into a fish,
And the alcohol kicks in,
But she is beautiful in the sun,
The way it shines through her dark brown hair,
And the way she freshens,
With colour in her face,
And the light breeze on the summer dress,
And the sandals hurting her feet.

I'd miss her so much,
And though I am on a chain,
And dragged around in my straw hat,
I wouldn't know what to do alone,
With the Retsina and the sunset

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