Old Fashioned Fantasy
Sauntering into the pub from out of the fog
the varnished wood paneling on the walls
reflecting the amber light from the Edison bulbs
in their Art Deco fixtures hanging overhead
the air scented with a mixture of lemon and leather
I see you sitting alone at the bar as you always are
your hair glinting gold with the slightest hint of red
You greet me as I seat myself at your side
the bartender placing an Old Fashioned in front of me
identical to your own but for an extra orange slice
He knows by now that’s the way I like it
I take a sip as you compliment my dress
then inquire as to how I’ve been since last we met
I tell you that nothing’s changed or I wouldn’t be here
Noticing your glass is nearly empty I order you another
dropping the cherry from my own into it
as Al Bowlly croons a tune about the moon on the radio
I recall how he was killed in the Blitz and buried
in a mass grave as if he was no one of any consequence
You gaze at me with your azure eyes as I light a cigarette
asking once again why I insist on murdering myself
I answer you as I have a hundred times before
I'm already dead as even someone as celebrated
as you will be someday so what does it matter
This is all an absurd fantasy anyway
The real you doesn’t give a damn what I do
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