Night School

 

Meet me at the Orient Espresso.

It’s the one with dirty tables

where passable cappuccino can be yours.

And they don’t always charge you

and they don’t always barge in

on your conversation.

 

Meet me at the British-ish Museum.

It comprises things we stole and pictures of the Colosseum,

some rodeo in Rome.

And it might be enlightening,

and it might not be frightening

when a mature room attendant gives you the eye.

 

Everybody loves a competition, don’t you find?

And no one ever died from going to night school.

But while you’ve been busy getting educated in the head,

my friends and I have only played the fool.

 

We’ve only played the fool.

Yes, we’re too cool for school.

 

The future is ending

and I’m still pretending

it’s alright.

 

I don’t mind.

I really, really don’t mind.