You can't sit by the street light, flicking a cigarette into the night sky,
claiming to be drunk on a bottle of rum.
The mere shadow of a rhyme, I profess at quarter past 9,
That my life's lost rhythm.
You stare into the distance, denying my existence,
I scream, shout and stare,
Giving an indignant shake to my hair.
You slide your eyes down my body,
You ask "Haven't you some place else to be?"
And turn away into the soft breeze.