Gloves In My Pocket She lives in London and I live in Paris but I’ve 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 didn’t 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. I’ll 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 I’ve got her gloves in my pocket.