Roger Waters – Leaving Beirut Lyrics

Historys not written by the vanquished or the damned

If I could find them now, could I make amends?

Ma femme, thank God! Monopod but not queer

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And took the proffered bowl of water heated up and washed

Of course they slept on the floor behind a curtain

Not in my name, Tony, you great war leader you

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Now we are Genghis Khan, Lucretia Borghia, Son of Sam

The driver lent wearily across and pushed open the back door

The taxi drove off leaving us in the dim light of the swinging bulb

In no great hope at the ramshackle procession of home bound traffic

The floor was earth packed hard and by one wall a raised platform

Quickly dried the salt tears from my young cheeks.

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And we men made our way back to the crossroads

I walked the five or six miles to the last of the street lamps

He allowed himself to be folded into the back seat again

The hunchback busied herself with small copper pots over an open hearth

Some six foot by four covered by a simple sheet, the bed

She would hear of nothing else, I was their guest

Roger Waters – Leaving Beirut Lyrics

But now an Englishman abroad is just a US stooge

He headed East to Baghdad and the rest of it

She carried on her back a shocking hump

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My host gave me one crutch and leaning on the other

Monsieur, si vous voulez, ca sera un honneur pour nous

Advisory – the following lyrics contain explicit language:

And some miles later the dolmus slowed at a crossroads lit by a single lightbulb

You got great beaches, wildernesses and malls

When on the right I made out the low profile of a building

Signalled the approach of someone within

Swung through a U-turn and stopped in a cloud of dust

Only one leg, the second trouser leg neatly pinned beneath a vacant hip

Fingers together like a child waving goodbye

Carrying in her arms their pride and joy, their child.

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He called out in Arabic to announce our arrival

The door creaked open and there, holding a biblical looking oil lamp

The painful slowness of our progress accentuated by the brilliant morning light

In 1961 they took this child into their home

This man would never turn you from his door

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His faced creased in pleasure, he set off in front of me

A clerk maybe, slightly sunken in the seat

And the changing angle of light in the wide crack under the door

After half an hour wed gone maybe half a mile

Someone elses child dies and equities in defence rise

She went to take his crutches in routine of care

America, America, please hear us when we call

The bulldog is a poodle snapping round the scoundrels last refuge

The gentleness between the one-legged man and his monstrous wife

When I was 17 my mother, bless her heart, fulfilled my summer dream

Is this a mountain that we really want to climb

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I turned out my pockets and shrugged at the driver

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The driver put my old Hofner guitar in the boot with my rucksack

Si vous venez avec moi a la maison pour manger avec ma femme

One besuited, bespectacled, moustached, irritated, distant, late

You got hip-hop, be-bop, hustle and bustle

Carefully poured from a small bottle with a faded label

So severe that as one eye looked out the other disappeared behind its nose

Which he leaned against the rear wing of the Mercedes.

And half bowed as the taxi headed south towards the city

Then folded and dipped into the soft insides of female sea urchins

Then came the dawn and then their quiet stirrings

And after some scuffling inside a lamp was lit

Whilst I lay awake all night on their earthen bed

Frail, fifty five-ish, bald, sallow, in a short sleeved pale blue cotton shirt

Cooked in an iron skillet over the open hearth

When we all knew what we were fighting for

And then with much merci-ing and bowing and shaking of hands

And left the men to sit drinking thimbles full of Arak

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The driver dumped my guitar and rucksack at my feet

He beckoned with a small arthritic motion of his hand

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Is this our pleasure, punishment or crime

Dont let the might, the Christian right, fuck it all up

But everyone was kind to us, we were the English dudes

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Terror is still terror, whosoever gets to frame the rules

In small talk between strangers, his French alien but correct

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Venez! A soft voice from the back seat

Up the dusty side road into the darkness

Our dads had helped them win the war

She stood aside to let us in and as she turned

Stood a squat, moustached woman, stooped smiling up at us

I turned North, my guitar over my shoulder

Should gentleness be filed along with empathy

And merci a votre femme, elle est tres gentille

He reached into the car and lifted my companion out

The ubiquitous, Arab, shared taxi drew up

We motored down to Paris, fuelled with Dexedrine and booze

And waving away my thanks returned to the boot

Are these the people that we should bomb

I stooped to look inside at the two men there

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And then she retired behind a curtain

But my benefactor made no move to follow

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Est-ce que vous parlais Anglais, Monsieur?

And sipped my coffee in its tiny cup

Only to reappear with a pair of alloy crutches

We sat on meagre cushions in one corner of the single room

Took my things and laid them gently in the corner

My hostess did not eat, I ate her dinner

Swinging his leg between the crutches with agonising care

I nodded and smiled back at her in greeting, fighting for control

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