Frio em Lisboa

Too young to die but too old to survive

I've spent too long trying to write this poem

The rhythm is OK but the words are all wrong

Maybe it's time for a change

I've lived a lie since the day I arrived

Building my dreams – grand romantic schemes

Now I'm thirty five but I'm still in my teens

Maybe it's time for a change
Now it's time to say goodbye

To my suit, my shirt, my tie

My youth seems to have passed me by

And I'm too young to die

I will not weep for what we leave behind

I must break free from that part of me

That values the art over the humanity

I think it's time for a change
I thought that I was doing fine

But now I've changed my mind

Casa do Bento

– Tenho um papo debaixo do olho, estou a ficar velho. – Disse ele consternado.

– A idade chega a todos. Querias ter um rabinho de bébé com pelezinha de pêssego, não? – rematou ela com secura.

– Pois é, mas os papos são grandes. – Contrapôs ele.

– Põe buldog. – Disse ela de repente.

– Buldog? – perguntou ele incrédulo. – Isso é um cão.

– Todas as artistas usam...

– Butox – corrigiu ele – não é buldog.

– Já vi que estás com a telha? Deixa, acabou a conversa!