Text: Herman Düne. Glory Of Old.

I left the flat cause it felt like 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 few
anything goes, anythings coo
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 artic cercle
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

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