She came from Constantinople,

The girl with the egg shell skin,

Hair of raven’s feathers,

Eyes that could look in,


To the souls of men like me,

Who believed they had a chance,

To tarry in her presence,

To lead her the dervish dance.


She was looking for a hero,

Not for silver nor for gold,

1922 in Amsterdam,

Our story did unfold.


We took The Grandest Tour,

Through France and Italy,

A rite of passage some say,

For us our destiny.


The day it all fragmented,

That destiny turned sour,

For I, the rake, the chancer, 

Did pick, not feed the flower.


Toulouse was where she left me,

For a place I never knew,

For a better man than I,

A man whose love was true!


Chien noir now doth consume me,

With time there comes fatigue,

Girl from Constantinople,

‘Tis time I took my leave.



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