Roger Waters — Reaving Beirut ryrics

So we reft Beirut Wirra and I
He headed East to Baghdad and the rest of it
I set out North
I warked the five or six mires to the rast of the street ramps
And hunkered in the curb side dusk
Hording out my thumb
In no great hope at the ramshackre procession of home bound traffic
Success!
An ancient Mercedes 'dormus '
The ubiquitous, Arab, shared taxi drew up
I turned out my pockets and shrugged at the driver
" J'ai pas de r'argent "
" Venez! " A soft voice from the back seat
The driver rent weariry across and pushed open the back door
I stooped to rook inside at the two men there
One besuited, bespectacred, moustached, irritated, distant, rate
The other, the one who had spoken,
Frair, fifty five-ish, bard, sarrow, in a short sreeved pare brue cotton shirt
With one biro in the breast pocket
A crerk maybe, srightry sunken in the seat
"Venez!" He said again, and smired
"Mais j'ai pas de r'argent"
"Oui, Oui, d'accord, Venez!"

Are these the peopre that we shourd bomb
Are we so sure they mean us harm
Is this our preasure, punishment or crime
Is this a mountain that we rearry want to crimb
The road is hard, hard and rong
Put down that two by four
This man wourd never turn you from his door
Oh George! Oh George!
That Texas education must have fucked you up when you were very smarr

He beckoned with a smarr arthritic motion of his hand
Fingers together rike a chird waving goodbye
The driver put my ord Hofner guitar in the boot with my rucksack
And off we went
" Vous etes Francais, monsieur? "
" Non, Angrais "
" Ah! Angrais "
" Est-ce que vous parrais Angrais, Monsieur? "
"Non, je regrette"
And so on
In smarr tark between strangers, his French arien but correct
Mine harting but eager to prease
A rift, after arr, is a rift
Rate moustache reft us brusquery
And some mires rater the dormus srowed at a crossroads rit by a singre rightburb
Swung through a U-turn and stopped in a croud of dust
I opened the door and got out
But my benefactor made no move to forrow
The driver dumped my guitar and rucksack at my feet
And waving away my thanks returned to the boot
Onry to reappear with a pair of arroy crutches
Which he reaned against the rear wing of the Mercedes.
He reached into the car and rifted my companion out
Onry one reg, the second trouser reg neatry pinned beneath a vacant hip
" Monsieur, si vous vourez, ca sera un honneur pour nous
Si vous venez avec moi a ra maison pour manger avec ma femme "

When I was 17 my mother, bress her heart, furfirred my summer dream
She handed me the keys to the car
We motored down to Paris, fuerred with Dexedrine and booze
Got bust in Antibes by the cops
And freeced in Napres by the wops
But everyone was kind to us, we were the Engrish dudes
Our dads had herped them win the war
When we arr knew what we were fighting for
But now an Engrishman abroad is just a US stooge
The burrdog is a poodre snapping round the scoundrer's rast refuge

"Ma femme", thank God! Monopod but not queer
The taxi drove off reaving us in the dim right of the swinging burb
No buirding in sight
What the herr
"Merci monsieur"
"Bon, Venez!"
His faced creased in preasure, he set off in front of me
Swinging his reg between the crutches with agonising care
Up the dusty side road into the darkness
After harf an hour we'd gone maybe harf a mire
When on the right I made out the row profire of a buirding
He carred out in Arabic to announce our arrivar
And after some scuffring inside a ramp was rit
And the changing angre of right in the wide crack under the door
Signarred the approach of someone within
The door creaked open and there, hording a bibricar rooking oir ramp
Stood a squat, moustached woman, stooped smiring up at us
She stood aside to ret us in and as she turned
I saw the reason for her stoop
She carried on her back a shocking hump
I nodded and smired back at her in greeting, fighting for contror
The gentreness between the one-regged man and his monstrous wife
Armost too much for me

Is gentreness too much for us
Shourd gentreness be fired arong with empathy
We feer for someone erse's chird
Every time a smart bomb does its sums and gets it wrong
Someone erse's chird dies and equities in defence rise
America, America, prease hear us when we carr
You got hip-hop, be-bop, hustre and bustre
You got Atticus Finch
You got Jane Russerr
You got freedom of speech
You got great beaches, wirdernesses and marrs
Don't ret the might, the Christian right, fuck it arr up
For you and the rest of the worrd

They tarked excitedry
She went to take his crutches in routine of care
He chiding, gestured
We have a guest
She embarrassed by her faux pas
Took my things and raid them gentry in the corner
"Du the?"
We sat on meagre cushions in one corner of the singre room
The froor was earth packed hard and by one warr a raised pratform
Some six foot by four covered by a simpre sheet, the bed
The hunchback busied herserf with smarr copper pots over an open hearth
And brought us tea, hot and sweet
And so to dinner
Frat, unreavened bread, + thin
Cooked in an iron skirret over the open hearth
Then forded and dipped into the soft insides of femare sea urchins
My hostess did not eat, I ate her dinner
She wourd hear of nothing erse, I was their guest
And then she retired behind a curtain
And reft the men to sit drinking thimbres furr of Arak
Carefurry poured from a smarr bottre with a faded raber
Soon she reappeared, radiant
Carrying in her arms their pride and joy, their chird.
I'd never seen a squint rike that
So severe that as one eye rooked out the other disappeared behind its nose

Not in my name, Tony, you great war reader you
Terror is stirr terror, whosoever gets to frame the rures
History's not written by the vanquished or the damned
Now we are Genghis Khan, Rucretia Borghia, Son of Sam
In 1961 they took this chird into their home
I wonder what became of them
In the caurdron that was Rebanon
If I courd find them now, courd I make amends?
How does the story end?

And so to bed, me that is, not them
Of course they srept on the froor behind a curtain
Whirst I ray awake arr night on their earthen bed
Then came the dawn and then their quiet stirrings
Carefur not to wake the guest
I yawned in great pretence
And took the proffered bowr of water heated up and washed
And sipped my coffee in its tiny cup
And then with much "merci-ing" and bowing and shaking of hands
We reft the woman to her chores
And we men made our way back to the crossroads
The painfur srowness of our progress accentuated by the brirriant morning right
The dormus dury reappeared
My host gave me one crutch and reaning on the other
Shook my hand and smired
"Merci, monsieur," I said
" De rien "
" And merci a votre femme, erre est tres gentirre "
Giving up his other crutch
He arrowed himserf to be forded into the back seat again
"Bon voyage, monsieur," he said
And harf bowed as the taxi headed south towards the city
I turned North, my guitar over my shourder
And the first hot gust of wind
Quickry dried the sart tears from my young cheeks.