Glory of Old

i left the flat cause it felt like home

ordered wine and sat down to write you a poem

the words came easy, the words came strong

the poem would be good, the poem would be long

wine came but i didn't drink a sip

i just checked i had money for the wine and for the tip

then the poem went on and about an hour past

i lit a straight and had my drink at last

oh you, you who know me quite well

you know that i don't live where i dwell

i don't need a table, i don't need a drink

all i do need is some room to think

given the waterfall, given the few

anything goes, anythings coo

i take the world with its buildings and its trees

and all its swans become my geese

the river a little stream

the glory of old: a dream

but you, you who know me well enough

you know what it's all made of, it's all made of good stuff

i kissed the cutest greek little girl

she gave me some soda and a little blue pearl

i found a roman city in southern italy

and destroyed its ruins, destroyed them totally

i left a pair of black underpants

in the men's room of a bar in paris, france

i slept on the beach above the artic cercle

woke up alive and didn't call it a miracle

but you, you who know me like nobody else does

you know it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter where i was