Gloves In My Pocket

She lives in London and
I live in Paris but
Iíve got her gloves in my pocket.

Two purple mittens for
Warming her hands chilly,
No busy daddy to grab.

I popped them into my
Pocket I did, yes, one
Day when the wind didnít bite;

One day when the roundabout
Spun itself dizzy, one
Day when the slide got a fright.

I smuggled them back to
Paris I did, yes; back
To the mould and the drab;

To the grime and the dirt with
No baby to hold, I
Grin as paint peels from a crack.

Iíll see her again in
Two days and a half and
I really should give her them back ~

Those sweet little mitts ~
Favourite colour, you know,
Given up for some pushes and shoves.

I popped them into my
Pocket, I did, as the
Swing swung and danced with delight.

Now I think of them lining
My jacket with dust
As I lie here alone in the night.

Tossing and churning I
Dream of warm winters, and
Tropical hungers and loves.

I live in Paris and
She lives in London but
Iíve got her gloves in my pocket.



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