Each street is a path filled with their music and her perfume
Every restaurant has an open table on each potted patio
Intersections hold no danger and blind musicians cross against the lights
Playing cellos in midair and glockenspiels against the brickwork on the walls
They harmonize on thumb-flutes or hammer drums against the low clouds

Her name is Ingrid and Beate, sometimes Impei and then Umbai
She's blond and small or black and full and breathes the air like a tornado
You're moving fast as well and have that feeling which tourists often share
Of lost and lonely hotel beds which scare you like an empty well
You fall together and come out on the other side with toast and wonder

This time it's real, this time you're sure, and (insert city here) is now the place
To make a stand and seal the deal and close the gap and who's kidding who

That afternoon, the lowest paid of all the crew clean up the mess; the carnival's gone
Another ride to another airport and the custom agents ask, "Is there anything to declare?"

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