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
