Woozy with cider

I watch the park quieten from the hotel window. I hear you softly sleep amongst the cars and saluting songbirds. For a city whose size had scared me for years, Right now it's a feeble evening row — Not un-similar to a beach evening ending. On the table to my left, there's a magazine with a picture of a d**d monkey, Making a mockery of what I'd call art. But what would I know about the scene in the city That has swallowed up friends, lovers, and family? Just give me a village the size of a teacup. You're happier here, spread out with your eyes closed. I feel I should order a drink in celebration — to welcome the summer, Whose first day is ending. Should you wake, you'd catch me, of course, And ask me the wisdom of drinking once more. I cast my mind back to yesterday’s wedding, Where we got drunk and fell over. I did my best to be polite to a family I'd never met, But on numerous occasions, I guess, I could have tried harder. Of course, by the end of the night, I was a best friend with everyone — and everyone’s wife. But right now, I couldn't remember their names, No matter how hard I try. As the sun glares through the hotel window, I wonder of our future and where it will lead to. I wonder if you'll be laying there Ten years, twenty years, thirty years down the line. I'll still be staring out at the street, confused about love and life. It'll be interesting to see if anyone ever bought those songs of mine, If anyone heard those words that I never got quite right. I think I can be honest in presuming The world is not exactly going to be leaping out its bed To make me rich using my songs in adverts — Selling oranges or lemons. Who knows? I may end up owning the whole street, Or more likely, sleeping under a tree in the park opposite. Would the runners keep me awake, Or would I keep them asleep? I'd hope I have the sense to move back home. As lovely as today is, I'd imagine the winter would be rather cold. I'd been told for years that the devil had the best tunes, And that the devil lived down here — Whereas us country folk weren't worth the salt from the road. Ex-pat magazine editors who choose to lose their temper On the easily persuaded northern town dwellers. And sure enough, 99 percent of the people I meet Have scant regard for entertaining me. It seems I'm too old, too slow, too quiet, and just wrong — And I'm glad. In their cocaine-fuelled electronic cabarets, I'll be the man at the bar, drinking overpriced whiskey From a barmaid who's too good to catch my eye. She only works here two nights a week; The rest of the time she's a singer in a rock and roll band. I bet she'd change her tune If I told her my album had peaked at number 172, And that I also had friends who worked in bars — And that didn’t define who they are, Though it certainly helps their capacity to drink. But I've strayed off the subject. Now I'll be leaning over and waking you up, And you'll squint at me through the cracks between your eyelids, Woozy with cider, As