TOULOUSE ONE MARCH

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Love was born a pauper,

Took its secret to the grave,

Hate was born a noble king,

Yet died a lowly slave.

 

A bullet, a carnival,

A laser lacerates the sky,

Steel bands in the foreground,

This night the priest will die.

 

The black girl in tight leopard skin,

Has no need to dance,

She does so because it suits her,

Doesn’t need a second chance.

 

Street corners and red lights,

Rolex’s and trafficking,

Brief cases and beer bellies,

Lap dancers, idle flings.

 

Hopeless conversations,

The red wine overflows,

Boasts of sexual conquest,

Simple tales of woe.

 

From the shadows steps a psychopath,

A shotgun in his hand,

A flash pimp, a black beret,

Cares not he has been damned.

 

Take me out of this world,

Painted flesh now leaves me cold,

The carnival was worthless,

It delivered up fool’s gold.

 

Love was born a pauper,

Hate was born a king,

A pool of blood, a body,

Love is on the wing.

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