Glory Of Old

I left the flat cause it felt like a 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 fuel
Anything goes, anythings cool
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 Arctic Circle
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