by Tom Hatch
Champagne, good food, the piano player
Playing our song, a cool, not to cold February
Night, Rome, Italy at the top of
The Via Veneto, Harry's Bar
We had no choice in the matter
When will we be at Harry's Bar again?
She smiled at me I knew it was the time
We were tourists on the ball at Harry's Bar.
Dancing at Harry's we took control
Of the open floor gliding our steps and twirling
Like the wind she in my arms
Then a release her hands over head she whirls
A roulette wheel “all my money on lucky red 7”
The two of us in total charge we knew the rules
We invented them. It was a spotless finish as
I held her close
Then some applause and shouts of
“Inamorato, inamorato”
As our ten year old boy
Eating his tiramisu shaking his head
Turned bright red as a knocked
Over glass of wine puddling
In the white linen tablecloth
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