Taking off his winter cossack 

The Russian ordered blood soup and vodka 

He turned his pale eyes to the woman by the door 

Daughter of a distant land and hoped she was a whore 

With onion breath the fat bar man 

Broke into an old folk song 

And the Frenchman by the kitchen door 

Cried for beer pour me more! 

I paid my bill and took a walk 

Around and down the spiral stair 

To a smokey room where Poles played cards 

And spoke of wars Quietly – for the Russian man upstairs

I took a hand and antied in 

And asked the men of God and sin 

Every man and each alone 

Believed in his immortal soul 

Above us shook the wooden floor 

Dust fell and the Frenchman called still pour me more! 

It sounded like the barman danced, drunk at last, 

And a shot rang out but nothing we said 

For we were all good godly men


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