Leaving Beirut Lyrics - Roger Waters

So we left Beirut Willa and I 

He headed East to Baghdad and the rest of it 

I set out North 

I walked the five or six miles to the last of the street lamps 

And hunkered in the curb side dusk 

Holding out my thumb 

In no great hope at the ramshackle procession of home bound traffic 

Success! 

An ancient Mercedes 'dolmus ' 

The ubiquitous, Arab, shared taxi drew up 

I turned out my pockets and shrugged at the driver 

" J'ai pas de l'argent " 

" Venez! " A soft voice from the back seat 

The driver lent wearily across and pushed open the back door 

I stooped to look inside at the two men there 

One besuited, bespectacled, moustached, irritated, distant, late 

The other, the one who had spoken, 

Frail, fifty five-ish, bald, sallow, in a short sleeved pale blue cotton shirt 

With one biro in the breast pocket 

A clerk maybe, slightly sunken in the seat 

"Venez!" He said again, and smiled 

"Mais j'ai pas de l'argent" 

"Oui, Oui, d'accord, Venez!" 

Are these the people that we should bomb 

Are we so sure they mean us harm 

Is this our pleasure, punishment or crime 

Is this a mountain that we really want to climb 

The road is hard, hard and long 

Put down that two by four 

This man would never turn you from his door 

Oh George! Oh George! 

That Texas education must have fucked you up when you were very small 

He beckoned with a small arthritic motion of his hand 

Fingers together like a child waving goodbye 

The driver put my old Hofner guitar in the boot with my rucksack 

And off we went 

" Vous etes Francais, monsieur? " 

" Non, Anglais " 

" Ah! Anglais " 

" Est-ce que vous parlais Anglais, Monsieur? " 

"Non, je regrette" 

And so on 

In small talk between strangers, his French alien but correct 

Mine halting but eager to please 

A lift, after all, is a lift 

Late moustache left us brusquely 

And some miles later the dolmus slowed at a crossroads lit by a single lightbulb 

Swung through a U-turn and stopped in a cloud of dust 

I opened the door and got out 

But my benefactor made no move to follow 

The driver dumped my guitar and rucksack at my feet 

And waving away my thanks returned to the boot 

Only to reappear with a pair of alloy crutches 

Which he leaned against the rear wing of the Mercedes. 

He reached into the car and lifted my companion out 

Only one leg, the second trouser leg neatly pinned beneath a vacant hip 

" Monsieur, si vous voulez, ca sera un honneur pour nous 

Si vous venez avec moi a la maison pour manger avec ma femme " 

When I was 17 my mother, bless her heart, fulfilled my summer dream 

She handed me the keys to the car 

We motored down to Paris, fuelled with Dexedrine and booze 

Got bust in Antibes by the cops 

And fleeced in Naples by the wops 

But everyone was kind to us, we were the English dudes 

Our dads had helped them win the war 

When we all knew what we were fighting for 

But now an Englishman abroad is just a US stooge 

The bulldog is a poodle snapping round the scoundrel's last refuge 

"Ma femme", thank God! Monopod but not queer 

The taxi drove off leaving us in the dim light of the swinging bulb 

No building in sight 

What the hell 

"Merci monsieur" 

"Bon, Venez!" 

His faced creased in pleasure, he set off in front of me 

Swinging his leg between the crutches with agonising care 

Up the dusty side road into the darkness 

After half an hour we'd gone maybe half a mile 

When on the right I made out the low profile of a building 

He called out in Arabic to announce our arrival 

And after some scuffling inside a lamp was lit 

And the changing angle of light in the wide crack under the door 

Signalled the approach of someone within 

The door creaked open and there, holding a biblical looking oil lamp 

Stood a squat, moustached woman, stooped smiling up at us 

She stood aside to let us in and as she turned 

I saw the reason for her stoop 

She carried on her back a shocking hump 

I nodded and smiled back at her in greeting, fighting for control 

The gentleness between the one-legged man and his monstrous wife 

Almost too much for me 

Is gentleness too much for us 

Should gentleness be filed along with empathy 

We feel for someone else's child 

Every time a smart bomb does its sums and gets it wrong 

Someone else's child dies and equities in defence rise 

America, America, please hear us when we call 

You got hip-hop, be-bop, hustle and bustle 

You got Atticus Finch 

You got Jane Russell 

You got freedom of speech 

You got great beaches, wildernesses and malls 

Don't let the might, the Christian right, fuck it all up 

For you and the rest of the world 

They talked excitedly 

She went to take his crutches in routine of care 

He chiding, gestured 

We have a guest 

She embarrassed by her faux pas 

Took my things and laid them gently in the corner 

"Du the?" 

We sat on meagre cushions in one corner of the single room 

The floor was earth packed hard and by one wall a raised platform 

Some six foot by four covered by a simple sheet, the bed 

The hunchback busied herself with small copper pots over an open hearth 

And brought us tea, hot and sweet 

And so to dinner 

Flat, unleavened bread, + thin 

Cooked in an iron skillet over the open hearth 

Then folded and dipped into the soft insides of female sea urchins 

My hostess did not eat, I ate her dinner 

She would hear of nothing else, I was their guest 

And then she retired behind a curtain 

And left the men to sit drinking thimbles full of Arak 

Carefully poured from a small bottle with a faded label 

Soon she reappeared, radiant 

Carrying in her arms their pride and joy, their child. 

I'd never seen a squint like that 

So severe that as one eye looked out the other disappeared behind its nose 

Not in my name, Tony, you great war leader you 

Terror is still terror, whosoever gets to frame the rules 

History's not written by the vanquished or the damned 

Now we are Genghis Khan, Lucretia Borghia, Son of Sam 

In 1961 they took this child into their home 

I wonder what became of them 

In the cauldron that was Lebanon 

If I could find them now, could I make amends? 

How does the story end? 

And so to bed, me that is, not them 

Of course they slept on the floor behind a curtain 

Whilst I lay awake all night on their earthen bed 

Then came the dawn and then their quiet stirrings 

Careful not to wake the guest 

I yawned in great pretence 

And took the proffered bowl of water heated up and washed 

And sipped my coffee in its tiny cup 

And then with much "merci-ing" and bowing and shaking of hands 

We left the woman to her chores 

And we men made our way back to the crossroads 

The painful slowness of our progress accentuated by the brilliant morning light 

The dolmus duly reappeared 

My host gave me one crutch and leaning on the other 

Shook my hand and smiled 

"Merci, monsieur," I said 

" De rien " 

" And merci a votre femme, elle est tres gentille " 

Giving up his other crutch 

He allowed himself to be folded into the back seat again 

"Bon voyage, monsieur," he said 

And half bowed as the taxi headed south towards the city 

I turned North, my guitar over my shoulder 

And the first hot gust of wind 

Quickly dried the salt tears from my young cheeks.