Short trip to Paris


It was a fortune that took us off to Paris but one we’d borrowed never looking back
White thighs and ginger tea broken eggs and french perfume it all came so easy
You had my back so you told me in the lobby when the concierge got worried
We had come to the wrong town.

He offered tickets to the Man from La Mancha I wanted Can Can with reddened knees
And chances

Where the windmill stood at the top of the hill paint cracking faded and cheap
You took a long sip from a glass of absynth illegal to be drinking on the streets
And your vision was for immortal cuisine conjured up by men in dirty whites
Given to extolling all they had assembled little plates of mystery and delights