He loves us tender, shares that last waltz,
is lonesome tonight, perhaps every night,
celebrates blue skies, blue birds, blueness
over cliff and rainbow. He thinks to himself
what a wunnerful world it is.

He croons in transatlantic, panEuropean
with few consonants, none of those final ones,
plays sax between his vocals, abetted,
haphazardly, by a dour Turk on keyboards.
A set for hybrid diners,

replete with sun, wine and food. There is just enough
for us to recognise, fill in the gaps,
hum along, clap. As you observe, we are mostly
in our mid and later years, the Brits and Germans
older than the rest.

There’s a team of uniformed locals, seen it,
heard it all before, all season
, who smile little,
except for those flirting with the loudest,
oldest, mostly solo matrons. Selling their souls
for hopes of final parting tips.

The more reserved, like us, observe this pantomime,
down another beer, another Disaronno,
retire to book and sunburn cream and bed,
the second promise of an upgrade,
that smooth and soothing, seam-free superking.