I wish that there was no Bloomsbury,
Guy Clarke, cocaine and you.
I wish you never walked the foyer,
Orange sweater,
Marlboro bound.
Cho Cho¦.
I wish there was no NHD,
Little fingers on a diet coke.
I wish I kissed you there and then.
The way you swallowed your smoke.
I wish that there were no Ronnie Scott's,
and the way you took my hand.
And that black, stalled cab on Frith Street.
On a trip to understand
I wish that there was no snowfall.
In that virgin, south London place.
Nick Lowe twanging all night long.
the taking of morning grace.
But there was.
