It's a lethal ballet. Air traffic congestion. I'm having a baby. Second thoughts scotch dinner. And someone's dancing on the box. A former MP. And no one was watching. My oldest friends are a serious habit. Fly boy blue so bring your faces home. To my sweet trampoline. And acres of crash site love. Someone's dancing on the box. A former MP. And no one was watching. My oldest friends are a serious habit. Fly boy blue so bring your faces home. To my sweet trampoline. And acres of crash site love. Presidential delays. Suppose I'm just lucky. I'm having a shindig. Me Red Bob and the ivory host. And someone's shouting on the box. A chinless prefect gone Godzilla. My newest friends have forgotten my name. But so have I so far so good and home. You and me trampoline and oceans of crash site love. What can be said of the cigarette smokes. A prop for a joke or a mark on the clock. If I stopped would the bus ever come. Would the dawn ever kiss me. forgiven me knowing what's done. Would the drivel make scribble. make sense and then song. Would the woodbines denied black another man's lungs. Perverse as it may sound I sometimes believe. The tip to my lips just reminds me to breathe. What can be said of the whiskey and wine. Random abandon or ballast for joy. That was scuppered with trust little more than a boy. And besides I'm in excellent company. I'm reaching the age when decisions are made. On life and liver and I'm sure last ditch. That'll I'll ask for more time. But mother forgive me. I still want a bottle of good Irish whiskey and a bundle of smokes in my grave. But there isn't words yet for the comfort I get. From the gentle lunette. at the top of the nape of the neck that I wake to. And where are the words for the leap in my chest. When mischief appears. either side of the scar on your nose. Made by a rose thorn so you claim. By a rose thorn