He was like, Bob,

and she was like, Joan,

and I introduced them

to Leonard Cohen

whom they found exotic

like tea and orange

and faded blue denim

was covered by raincoats

they carried in bags

all the way from West Bromwich.

He began to speak softly

and slowly with meaning

and she no more ironed

her hair at the table

or turned up at weekends

to protest at something.

Their voices were rivers

ran deep as The Bible

they could have been bigger

than Barry McGuire

but fell under the spell

cast by last year’s man

and the sisters of mercy

were laughing and crying

until there were no more

grapes on the vine.

And so by and by

the circle was broken

love was just

a four letter word

and the masters of war

died at their own chosen speed.