One pocket full of crumbs 

in the other shrivelled chestnut,

between weather fingered thumbs

The chaff we can’t forget rubs.

 

In the lining of lapels

are the remnants of soft petals,

and a fair ground list of spells

That a Gypsy never settled.

 

Where once the button met the eye

no longer shall they couple,

how elegantly they did lie

where now the creases sadly crumple

 

The threadbare loop is fraying more

each longer night untwisting,

it hangs there lonely on the door,

No earthly thing is listening.