Beggars’ banquet

I take Line 9
Quite a lot
I know all kinds of beggars
On Line 9 I know them all
Some of them I saw
Their kids grow up
I’ve never seen
A Jew beggar
Neither a Chinese
Whatever that means
I’m now seeing Pakies

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Above ground not too high

Sometimes Line 9 is elusive
Especially late at night
Still have to go home though
So I was in an Uber cab
Same direction but above ground
Where the sun shines
I was coming down from Paris’ Pigalle
Where drinks and whores are cheap
And good company
Uber is on the pool shift
So we drive some
And pick up two kids
With tennis rackets and good education
Paris is funny that way
Funk and sadness are close neighbors
To financial ease and despair
There’s a messed up in the electronics
Kids are going to Pigalle
With a big smile on their face
I can understand why
But Pigalle is where I’m coming from
Going the other way
Uber driver is embarrassed
Checking his phone beeping madly
Kids are cool
And laugh it out
They have the night in front of them
They’ll walk if needed to
Uber dude promises to take me home
Is sorry for the wasted time bla bla bla
Offered me a bottle of water
It started to rain
Couldn’t even smoke in the damn car

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Balling not in Sofia, Bulgaria

What really startled me is that I didn’t hear them coming. And neither did the dog. Before I knew it, I had a Kalashnikov muzzle on my temple. I felt it, hard, before I heard. It was Bulgarian, I guess, but I knew what it meant: “Don’t move!” So I sat still.

It was a nice evening in the Balkans. Cold war wasn’t far but there was spring in the air. I was sitting in a city park and, until then, I was pretty happy with myself in Sofia.

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