smell of sex wafting from the kitchen mixed with smoke
creating a thick mixture
I pushed my plate off and beckoned to the head waiter:
you call this love in your menu
who cares, replied with a wry smile
and tossed his head towards the crowded pub
the air outside was freezy and quiet
a forgotten melody wept from a distance
`cause there`s not enough love to go `round
no there`s not enough love to go `round
down behind me the sweating waiters
fixed their fake wings
and kept scratching the filthy floor
with their hooves
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