Une soirée d'hiver

Listenin’ to the good-ol’ blues

on a fuckin’ goddamn evenin’

‘tis bleak and dark outside

cold, hyptonising rain’s a-fallin’

sippin’ my cup-a-coffee in this rag’s end of a shitty town

strangers driftin’ in and out

assholes who don’t understand the meanin’ of

“Lady Chatterley’s Lover” or “The Idiot”

Woolf and Bronte says the radio jockey

Joplin and Franklin too

A small beggar child knocks on the fogged-up glass window

ignore, ignore that brat

says everybody’s mind

or maybe just mine

not really a great judge of human beings

I look at her again

she’s signalling - mute and deaf

no food no water

just gimme’ money

her dress is a muddy yellow

it once had sunflower prints

now its just splotches of dried blood here n’ there

hair’s full of scum and dust

it reaches her knees

feet are bruised and cracked all over

a real-life Olivia Twist if ya will

she’s bangin’ hard on the door of the cafe now

the guard won’t let her through

owner leaves his lonely throne in the corner

with a mug of coffee

and yells, “This never happened, folks!

Back to your work!”

Goes out and beats her

slapping right and left with the back of his palm

she falls on the pavement

he’s kickin’ her in the ribs and gut

kickin’, kickin’

picks her up and throws her down again

mounts and punches her face

his bare knuckles shattering her dignity and honour

gets up and pours the mug of boiling hatred

and enters the cafe

girl, writhing

owner, grinning muttering

“fucking niggers, fucking niggers…”

I look at my own coffee and yell to the waiter

“yo! this tastes like shit, Sir.

Can I get a fresh cup?

Black, no sugar, no cream.”