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