Three cold, burnt chicken legs,
last of the white Italian wine;
romantic table for one, please;
desert at my place, or at mine?
A life of solitude out on the road
needn’t be so lonely an escapade.
As long as one enjoys one’s self,
like tonight, one might get laid.
Here’s a penny for my thoughts.
Why, I’ve a penny for them too.
Does it mean I make two cents,
or do I make no cents to you?
Some of my best conversations
have been like this one, all alone,
over dinner gazing off in space,
gnawing meat right off the bone.
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