Little Surprise

We ate toast cut roughtly into halves
With sour jam in an empty bar
Large vases, filled with dead flowers
And carved wood mirrors to show us our faces
Blinking out sleep, unkempt, unshaved, unsound
Round the back, slack-dressed, the chef lights a cigarette
Late for his shift again
Who are you to tell me that I look depressed?
You wouldn't know it but I'm at my best
I've got a little surprise up my sleeve
I've got a little surprise up my sleeve
I've got a little surprise up my sleeve
Shake open the pages, the yellowed slips of paper,
Flattened coffee stirrers, in the book on the table,
A ticket from the metro in Milan,
A letter from Simon in Prospect Park, Brooklyn,
One cigarette paper, torn magazine cover,
One leaflet for Jesus and one Hare Krishna
All fall out onto the table
Who are you to tell me that I look depressed?
You wouldn't know me when I'm at my best
I've got a little surprise up my sleeve
I've got a little surprise up my sleeve
I've got a little surprise up my sleeve