Feel the tempered breeze of a midnight moon
Kiss your neck,
Slowly, softly, like it means it.
Taste the icy winds dance intricate temptations of moisture on your parched tongue, as dry as the evening masque.
Lurch as the night-chill
Tickles your frozen bill,
Doing that old jig we all know,
With a slight whiff of that drunk whom we said no.

Icy callouses being exposed to the nightly tundra,
Enduring pain, eating the raw skin,
Seeking alms, nothing more.
The hungry hand opens wide,
Susceptible to the cold of the cruel night.
"Feed a poor geezer tonight, mate?"

Burning cold strikes, making the loneliness only harder.
Backs of coats flush past the beggar-man.
Sluring snide remarks, making faces with their tails.
A solemn tear drops from a hungry eye,
Ripping the air as it falls downwards,
Crashing on the barren palm,
Taut skin recoiling from the crash,
Pointing out the pain for the stingy of heart, and pocket too.

Feel the cold rise up through your thighs,
The unforgiving night-steel, a reproduced copy of a conformist regime,
Bending your free roaming spine to its strict conformist contortions.
In the corner sits a poor man.
Greasy hair spilling down his shoulders,
His face masked with the introversive spikes of a modest beard,
Compensating for his dirty jogging suit, memorable with the memory of a thousand pavements.
In front of him perched, on a tripod arm, a fleshy collection plate,
Wet,
With tears, the beat of the thudding drops striking an emotional chord.

A kind soul offers a kind hand,
Delivering dinner in one coin.
The shiny Queen's head making friends with its subject as the great coin drops.
Soothing train-chugs bring the forced acquaintance to an end.
Our meeting draws to a close so goodnight my midnight friend.
Goodnight my midnight friend,
I'll talk to you once more.
When the hour again is right,
I'll happily implore.
Que sera my midnight friend,
I'll talk to you again,
Sera sera my midnight friend,
Please take care until then.