44

On top of Shooter’s Hill

I am but a man wrapped in April chill

Is this how it will come to I

Spring brought freshness not but rather time to die.

I rolled another cigarette

And lit the damn thing without regret

Don’t want to look 25 when I am 50

Even if life is treating me easy.

Hope evades as quickly as it pervades

I am in no hurry to lie under the shade

May the fat lady clears her throat

But she knows I have stolen her voice and saw no boat.

On top of Shooter’s Hill

Watching London town sleeping still

I have to say my goodbye to nobody

I am not in this for my own glory.

(Yusuf Arifin 07042012)