We are children of street coffee shops
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We sit, ruffled, the three of us,
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We consider a trifle, as we can,
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And we chew black grains.
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Our friend was known as Hemingway,
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He is also a terrible coffee drinker.
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And, leaning against the battery,
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He writes a street novel.
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Come on, little bird
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Another cup
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We are not in Switzerland
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We live with you.
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They are shy
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And they drink with thimbles,
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And we will take our souls with you.
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Evening behind the curtain
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And in the rhythm of the blues, the snow creaks.
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The people are pouring into the warmth,
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Hot coffee warms the soul.
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Having given away the last pennies,
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Hopeful student
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Fortune telling on coffee grounds
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How to live up to a scholarship.
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Playing the guitar in the corner
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The motive is cheerful and simple,
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Tired bartender cooks, cooks
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Drink with a flaccid hand.
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Flow on the roofs of the coffee river
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And flood the mainland...
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He sleepily flattens his eyelids,
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He's already used to everything.
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Chorus: ... And we will take our souls in Russian. |