Indian girl

Indian girl
From India I mean
All dressed up and sexy
Parisian girl all the way
Second generation
Coming home late on Line 9
Poor part of town
She’s smiling and tipsy
If Mom & Pop
Hadn’t emigrated
She’d still be in India
From some lower caste
Toiling for some rich Indian fuck
Getting forced married
To some poor fuck
Cleaning rich fuck’s shit
As far as she knows
She’s better off Parisian
Yet there’s some sadness in her
Troubles at home
With Mom & Pop
I guess

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Gypsy King, not

On line 9
There are all kinds of begging musicians
Romany for most
Some of them are good
They play old French classics
That only they know
How to play anymore
But today there was an old wino, white
With a dirty one-string violin that he
Seemingly had found in the trash
He looked despondent
He tried to play
It was like hearing a saw
It jolted everyone in the car
The man was wobbly acting
The sound was excruciating
I just wished he had a home
To go to
So that he’d stop
He fell
Remained there, helpless
Sawing had stopped
At last

Ellar Wise

A Cyclops

There’s a beggar
On Line 9
His gig is gross
He has an eye covered with a
Bloody and dirty oozing dressing
This guy has been there
Almost every day for years
Weeping out of his one eye
With the same bandage on his face
That he dipped in the sewer or somewhere
The routine is such that
Kids going to school
Are not scared and don’t care
Only tourists are impressed
Late at night
When the city’s real sorrow
Shows its crying face
I’ve never seen the guy
On Line 9
Beggars work 8-to-5

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Marc is done rumbling


Going home
Late on Line 9
There’s Marc, gray hair
“I’m a designer,” he says
“Ho,” I say
“I designed a flacon for Dior,”
“Great,” I say
“You know, they don’t care about my work
I’m just budget studies
To design their flacon
It’s way above me
What I did, nobody will ever care
And now it’s the end of the line for me.”
“Line 9,” I said.
“Yep, Line 9,” he said.

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