To the bastard poet, who invented love;
Scrawled romance on tear stained parchment
To lists of names carved on cubical walls
Added by pissed up philosophers


And what am I to do
But over romanticise my life
Of cigarettes and alcohol
And cardboard packets of acoustic guitar strings


Accompanied by echoes of long nights out
Reflected in blood shot eyes
And muted gesticulation
Half hidden behind half read newspapers

All I left behind was a full ashtray, on the Piano.