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February 27, 2017



And humour in the end won out,

the common theme, the raucous shout,

as usual suspects all in place,

including those fallen from grace.


And bon viveurs and raconteurs,

took to the stage and made it theirs.

And champagne flowed and fuelled the fire,

as eyes recalled love’s lost desire.


And once or twice or maybe more,

the same old tale, bounced off the floor.

Revived, recycled, yet still the same –

a favourite of Sir Wots-his-name?


and hands were shaken and both cheeks kissed,

as Farewells said, from some now pissed,

and promises flowed from meaning lips,

as one, too tightly, got to grips,


Seizing the chance – you know the type,

who wins a girl by talking tripe.

All in his head, part of his act.

there’s always one and that’s a fact.


And queuing black cabs form a line,

as bodies fall in – ‘Your place or mine’?

Others not knowing their destination,

get out at Piccadilly Station.


And wander off into the night,

A night still young – Go fly your kite.

For humour in the end won through,

the common ground, that buddies knew.


And usual subjects, play their ‘cards’,

staying up til dawn – these real die-hards,

until departing, with words of cheer

‘Same time next week – make sure you’re here’.



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