A Wicker Basket

Comes the time when it's later and onto your table the headwaiter puts the bill, and very soon after rings out the sound of lively laughter-- Picking up change, hands like a walrus, and a face like a barndoor's, and a head without any apparent size, nothing but two eyes-- So that's you, man, or me. I make it as I can, I pick up, I go faster than they know-- Out the door, the street like a night, any night, and no one in sight, but then, well, there she is, old friend Liz-- And she opens the door of her cadillac, I step in back, and we're gone. She turns me on-- There are very huge stars, man, in the sky, and from somewhere very far off someone hands me a slice of apple pie, with a gob of white, white ice cream on top of it, and I eat it-- Slowly. And while certainly they are laughing at me, and all around me is racket of these cats not making it, I make it in my wicker basket.