Viva Italia

It’s wedged, cramped in Frith Street there

A stone’s throw from Soho Square

Opposite Ronnie Scott’s,

Serving up the blackest tots

In London town.

In Summer, when the roses bloom

And mingle with the taxi fumes,

If you try, you hear the starling

Through air kisses, hello darling!

But it’s open.

As the drinking halls shut

And the dancing places close,

Some anticipate slumber sweet,

While others seek repose

In the narrow room with the mirrored wall

Or the tiny tables curbside,

Sipping tar from demi-tasse,

Two sugars please, it’s bitter.

Finest treat of Summer’s night,

Finer still in Winter,

When steam and smoke

(No more, it’s banned)

Mingle with the roar

Of laughter voices vehicles

In the cold, pre-dawn hoar

As some start the day

And others end it.

All barge into the grey mist

With roasted breath and

And a tongue like pitch,

Grateful to have scratched the itch

For a little cup of liquid heaven

And a slice of cake to leaven

The anonymous conviviality

Of that diurnal locality,

A place to sit and sip and be.