In the aftermath I am much gladder,
Not sad to see the days end, the party done,
Some insignificant things retold, re-won.
Now that the whisky is beginning to walk, we can talk freely.
I can draw upon daring to mention in passing,
The time we touched knees, the sexual tension mounting with ease,
This way my dear, oh follow me please,
To the alleyways, to the starriness, to the metaphors of love,
Which fit like a glove into deep denim pockets.
He swells to the crime of endless prose, profound and verbose,
She totters and tumbles, then fumbles with giggles, to no avail,
He prefers the eggs of quail.
The drinks you sip, the tears you skip,
The frog-marched faces nothing but a blip in his mind.
Now there is soaring, and adoring,
Not gravity, not oxygen we breathe, not in the winter we freeze,
There is no red to spill, nor graves to dig and fill.
