London Was a Lady

London was a lady I met many years ago, Yellow haze and memories and the grimy, smoky snow, London was a lady with an icy English smile; ‘Asked her, could I stay with her? She said “For just a while.” She said “You Americans are really all the same: Loving girls and leaving them with souvenirs of shame, I’m a lady you can’t have, two thousand years I’m free, From the Romans to the Germans, read your history.” London was a lady with a European heart, Narrow Soho sidewalks, where the peddler wheels his cart, Silver Spanish buckles and some furniture from France, Pretty painted women whom you have to pay to dance. London was a lady, but she never was a wife, When you’re tired of London, Mister, then you’re tired of life, Dr. Johnson said so, ‘couple hundred years before; “Trade you Rome or Paris for a night with her once more.”