The poem
I walked into the night-club in the morning; There was kummel on the handle of the door. The ashtrays were unemptied. The cleaning unattempted, And a squashed tomato sandwich on the floor.
I pulled aside the thick magenta curtains -So Regency, so Regency, my dear — And a host of little spiders Ran a race across the ciders To a box of baby 'pollies by the beer.
Oh sun upon the summer-going by-pass Where ev'rything is speeding to the sea, And wonder beyond wonder That here where lorries thunder The sun should ever percolate to me.
When Boris used to call in his Sedanca, When Teddy took me down to his estate When my nose excited passion, When my clothes were in the fashion, When my beaux were never cross if I was late,
There was sun enough for lazing upon beaches, There was fun enough for far into the night. But I'm dying now and done for, What on earth was all the fun for? For I'm old and ill and terrified and tight.
Reprinted with the permission of John Murray (Publishers) Ltd.
Well articulated what we'll all feel, did we need to hear it, know it... already? Can't wait.