Friday nights and Silk cuts
Spilled espresso grounds
Echoes from the mountains
Stillness all around

Santa Anas, smoke rings
Distant piano keys
And on any given bench you’ll find
A dog-eared Thucydides

Brogues and bohrans both
Out only once a week
Stand closer to the fire
I want to watch you speak

Et in Arcadia ego
Et in Arcadia tu
You might have guessed it all would end
But I’m glad I never knew.