sometimes a chair, rarely a table
standing room always provides a way out
and the garb is like a whisper on the floor
the undergarments trinkets from beyond
let's sneak out back for the cold alley moon
and toast the matter at hand, under foot
there were always some who came late
but nobody missed the twinkle in her stride
tomorrow i'll alleviate your joints
and you will sing me away
the memory of her thighs will be fresh upon me
the sweetness of your aloofness will sour
and when I realize the day is now gone
there will be another round of escape,
another figure in the shadows awaiting a bit of light
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