With the half-full barley moon above me
I staggered sickly back through Budapest
Towards my hotel with the intention
To curl into a cocoon of bed sheets
Flu and The Band Played Waltzing Matilda.

There at a point so far from ambition
Anticipating a situation
So simple enabled me to struggle
On along the streets despite fever
And a throat so septic I couldn’t speak
While through my head continuously pulsed
The knowledge that once inside my hotel
I had found a way to peacefully sleep.