The hunted look, the haunted grace    The empty laugh that you cultivate    You fall into that false embrace    And kiss the air about her face    Who do you think you are?    The tres bon mots you almost quote from your    QUIVER of literary darts    A thousand or so tuneless violins thrilling your cheap    little heart    Who do you think you are?       My cigarette burns right down to the ash, my coffee    cup is unstained    The waiter hovers close at hand    His courtesy strained       Who do you think you are?    I close with my regards    Well I'm the red-face gentleman    Caught in this picture postcard    Who do you think you are?       Trying my best to make the best of your absence    Though the joke gets tired and sordid    Sea-shell hearts get trampled under foot    Punchlines unrewarded       But even at this distance it's not easy to accept    The vision that I chase returns when I least expect it    I've fallen from your tired embrace    I kiss the air around the place that should be your face.