Life blazed by in a red car
And love laughed loud in the back-seat.
I got splashed as they drove by
wandering down a back-street.
A friend in red once said to me
"you're only young as you feel"
then I'm as old as a broken urn,
I'm as cold as ennui.
Across the burning street stands an
Old man, face red like pepper,
Sausage head and lithe hands.
He's a grotesque little man, all paunch
punch, pint and Ireland.
I name him "Good Times" and move on.
Broken are the street lights
Glassy is the way, alleys wind forever
Severed is the day.
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