Tell me about Europe and her snows,
the spirit of adventure all the time,
how winter nights they hold their lovers close,
the way the light hits in the northern clime.
I can believe that papers put on shows,
to give a party power in its prime,
a man's a snowball rolling as he grows,
as fictional as Erich von Stroheim.
But in my tent I tucker and I tear
at brittle memories of my childhood lusts,
I vilify my woman and I stare
at jigsaw puzzles of Italian busts.
There's little, really, that I do not know;
but wealth is painful, and, love, life is slow.
