Villonelle

Where are the snows of yesteryear?
The barkeep mops around my feet
as I sit crying in my beer.

He just wants to get out of here -
it's almost three - but I repeat:
where are the snows of yesteryear?

Comradoes of my old career,
the punks and bullies of the street,
do they sit crying in their beer

in Paris purlieus, miles from here,
where citizens are fat and sweet:
where are the snows of yesteryear?

Dear to me, but not too dear,
was little Alice, reet petite.
Did we sit crying in our beer?

God's bones, she'd widdle in my ear
could she but hear me whine and greet:
where are the snows of yesteryear?

A broken-winded balladeer
must beg to live and hope to eat,
so I sit crying in my beer:
where are the snows of yesteryear?

David Callin

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  David Callin   would be pleased to hear them.