The hunted look, the haunted grace
The empty laugh that you cultivate
You fall into that false embrace
And kiss the air about her face
Who do you think you are?

The tres bon mots you almost quote from your
QUIVER of literary darts
A thousand or so tuneless violins thrilling your cheap
little heart
Who do you think you are?

My cigarette burns right down to the ash, my coffee
cup is unstained
The waiter hovers close at hand
His courtesy strained

Who do you think you are?
I close with my regards
Well I'm the red-face gentleman
Caught in this picture postcard
Who do you think you are?

To be continued...