It's cold and
it is very wet, the fog has formed a plane
Through which
our driver cannot see, as he goes about his task
I can't see a
bloody thing, and I'm too afraid to ask
It is dark and very late, and we are on our way
To our very flash
hotel for an shortish one night stay
It's forty five
minutes in the car I'm told, til we reach our destination
The traffic it
is very thick, I’m feeling his frustration
Tramcars and
taxis, like a waxworks on the move
I'm still channeling
the Angels, and this road is none too smooth
We pass some
shops, homes and hotels; it’s raining very hard
That the French
were here is very clear, a picturesque postcard
The
architecture is fantastic, the old and new combined
The bikes they
weave in traffic, hey, I think he’s driving blind
It's a comedy
on wheels; how they're not dead I can't work out
With one hand on
the throttle, into their mobile phones they shout
It seems we're
in a traffic jam, but it's pretty hard to tell
No problem, up
the gutter and we'll drive up here a spell
Once more we
are moving, we've made it to third gear
I wish he had a
mini bar, I sure could use a beer
The lights are
red, no matter; it doesn't count a jot,
As traffic comes
from everywhere, no one prepared to stop
Soon our trip
is over, we've made it safe and sound
To the front door
of our flash hotel, my feet are on the ground
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