Tabucci Waiting for Pessoa in mid-day Lisbon Try to keep cool when the sun is shining He's not coming, you make a decision Come back at midnight Get in to a taxi and start to panic The driver's lost and has no map And you decide you have to stop and Change your shirt The gypsy woman in the market selling Looking through them you make your choice of Lacoste shirts with the crocodile missing What's you colour Drive to the graveyard to visit your dead friend Look him and revive his corpse And you share a meal, like old-time weekends Eating sarambullo We love your stories Mr Tabucci We never know who is alive or dead We only know they don't make sense You call them novels Mr Tabucci We never understand the ones we've read We're not too smart, we don't pretend You need to lie down at the Isadora For ninety minutes to come alive And you're offered comfort by Viriata But you turn her down You ask the barman for apple Sumol He gives you Jarelas Verdes dream And tells you to buy O! Publico Just like the French The artist in the gallery after hours Copying Bosch in miniature scenes Sells them with a sense of humour To Texas ranches Catch a train to visit the lighthouse Just like a scene from Virginia Woolf The roof has gone and you can't recall how You could write there We love your stories... |