The three-legged accordionist fell off his stool outside the Paris brothel where he had been entertaining passersby for three hundred years. He was drunk. Lush from life and under the influence, lid-heavy humming ditties to the pimps of Pigalle and the ladies of love-for-a-sous.
He had promised her he'd wait for ever, and never lost hope as she came and she went with the same refrain: just one more, and then we can leave this place and sever our street servitude. But there was always another lover to please for pennies, as lost in her despair she was dragged by dejection found in fires too old. Too solid the chains, too weak her desire, too deep the furrows too furious the fire. They'd fallen before - too long ago and were bystanders in their own story, set in cement of shared sorrow.
Move along, Freak snarled the gendarme with kicking malevolence, taunting as he'd done for hundreds of years, envying his boundless devotion to a love so lost it seemed laughable:
'three-legged and legless' he sung and the crowd joined in chorus mocking and proud. Proud of what? Proud of thin straight white lines they eschewed? Proud of the queue for La Porte Etroite which stays shut in their faces as they strut the obedience with expressionless faces. There but for the grace of the graces. How could they share what he felt? The devotion of Penelope, weaving by day and unpicking by night, the thread that tied him to one pair of eyes and one sorry soul.
Alons-y Allonso the crowd chanted with glee like the Doctor, D. Tennant the Tennent's super-monster from the park-bench of bed-ridden Britain, the Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I drink to you all.
Move on
Allons-y
Nothing to see - c'est fini
It's just a childlike fantasy
Move along, Freak snarled the gendarme with kicking malevolence, taunting as he'd done for hundreds of years, envying his boundless devotion to a love so lost it seemed laughable:
'three-legged and legless' he sung and the crowd joined in chorus mocking and proud. Proud of what? Proud of thin straight white lines they eschewed? Proud of the queue for La Porte Etroite which stays shut in their faces as they strut the obedience with expressionless faces. There but for the grace of the graces. How could they share what he felt? The devotion of Penelope, weaving by day and unpicking by night, the thread that tied him to one pair of eyes and one sorry soul.
Alons-y Allonso the crowd chanted with glee like the Doctor, D. Tennant the Tennent's super-monster from the park-bench of bed-ridden Britain, the Tenant of Wildfell Hall. I drink to you all.
Move on
Allons-y
Nothing to see - c'est fini
It's just a childlike fantasy
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