~ by Charles A. Coulombe
The Knights still ride against the foe,
German flappers do the Charleston yet,
Sherlock Holmes sees the game’s afoot,
And it’s always London in 1895.
We are all riding on the Orient Express,
Down to New Orleans, for Ivanhoe is waiting.
Beatrice beckons, with Terry and his pirates.
And it’s always London, in 1895.
The summers that have never been,
Outside the King’s house in Cair Paravel,
Riding with Arthur, Galahad, Lancelot
And it’s always London, in 1895.
When the eye, the mind, are black and blind,
The heart and soul see through,
They pierce reality’s hermetic wrap
To where it’s always London, in 1895.