I’ve lived in a share house

I’ve lived in a warehouse

I’ve lived at my mothers house

I’ve lived at my fathers house

But nowhere I’ve lived was so sweet

As a bookstore in Paris, the city of lights

Working by day and reading by night

On beds nestled amongst the shelves

Where we worked on our books

And we worked on ourselves

They called us the tumbleweeds

Back packers and expats in need

Who aspired to be writers

Poets and freedom fighters

Where we chased off the gypsies

And fought of a drunk

Where we met the eccentric owner

And walked his dog

In the Paris twilight

On the edge of the Latin Quarter

A stones throw from the Seine

Now I study my French

As I count down the days

Til I can go back

TO my tumbleweed ways

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