Well he'll smash his fists into the muddy puddle
(he will)
Outside the derelict bar,
down by the Atlantic,
where he used to call the wild dogs,
where he used to stare at the moon
with the girls from the special court
and say things like
'it makes you think'
and
'I can't believe any of this is real'.

And he'll go home, night after night,
drenched through with rain
and stand on his balcony overlooking the bay
and see himself as Graham Greene
and see himself as watched by all the stars,
followed at every step,
with every sip of Irish whiskey,
touched by god.

And he'll find himself in a corner,
quiet and bitter,
with the one woman he does not want
and the one profession he cannot bear,
beckoned to the dance floor
for all the wrong songs
and he'll say things like
'it makes you think'
and
'I can't believe any of this is real.'