And so the old town clock is winding down.
It’s time to leave the party; say goodbye.
Some souls would rather stay and play the clown.
His fantasies go deep and so he sighs.
He thinks he’s Bogie; somewhere there’s still life.
He’s lonely; haunts the bars for his Bacall.
She’s blonde and does not look much like his wife.
“Hey, better you should go before you fall!”
The bar-keep opens creaking door to vent
the hours of smoke and conversation stale.
A pale and misty rain the mornings sent
so, for this clown, a cabby he must hale.
The blazing light still shocks. He’s out the door…
He knows its time to go before it’s four.