This way is a waterslide away from you that takes you futher everyday.

And now, crappy poetry from my high school notebook:

Heinz.
Hunts.
That real English tea with milk and lots of sugar.
Four channels and nothing on.
The BBC blasting in my head.
Take me to your Tower Hill and walk me around your Tower of London.
Let me play on the pedestal of Nelson's Column and slide off the lions of Trafalgar Square.
Meet me at the corner of UConn and Abbey Road.

I gazed across the floor.
The aura of erudition with short blond hair and wire-rimmed specs.
The heart of divinity drawing me near.
Drank my drink.
Relief in disbelief.
Stole my soul.
Locked it up across the Atlantic.
No ulterior motives.

Sedatives.
Laxatives.
Bad ravioli and smuggled English tea.
Kill for some music, some lights,
Vodka on the rocks, [ed.: some things never change.]
Evian,
A chain smoker and a history buff.
Boxy black cabs and chaotic coat checks haunt me.
Illuminate me like a Rembrandt
Because I feel like a Bosch.

Lovely accents.
A pair of pairs roaming the deserted streets.
A city that never sleeps has an early bed time.
Bar time.
Belushi's time.
Sing "Sweet Home, Chicago."
Get the bartender to fly back to the states
And make Long Island iced teas.
What blasphemy.
Like ice cubes melting in the sun.

Passports.
Daffodils.
Leaving the scene with no send off.
Can't find a tube, call a cab.
Eleven pounds thirty.
Keep the change.
Change is good--
But not now.
Soulmates slip away.
Your accent really is lovely, though.
Right on.

And be able to write so unselfconsciously again, and think I'm such hot shit? HELLS YEAH, I'm going back to high school!