Sat in the café by the cracker factory,
he were practising a magic trick,
and my thoughts got rude, as you talked and chewed,
on the last of your pick and mix.
Said your mistaken if you thinking that i am gun’ go cold before
as you bit into your strawberry lace,
and then a flip in your attention in the form of a gobstopper,
is all you have left and all is going to waste.
Your past-times, consisted of the strange,
and twisted and deranged,
and i love that little game you had called,
crying lightning,
and how you like to aggravate the ice-cream man on rainy afternoons.
The next time that i caught my own reflection,
it was on its way to meet you,
thinking of excuses to postpone.
You never look like yourself from the side,
but your profile did not hide,
the fact you knew i was approaching your throne.