She walked and he walked.
She was a chatterbox, he never talked.
They stopped in front of the double doors,
they were outside the little store.
They kicked the doors open, entered in full swagger,
a little too much whiskey, he begins to stagger.
She was a small girl, with a loop of metal in her lip.
He was a tall guy, with a leather belt hung loosely 'round his hips.
They only had a few coins of their own,
they lived in an abandoned building, and had no phone.
He wanted cigarettes, she wanted strawberry yogurt.
He said cigs had priority, so she shoved the yogurt down her shirt.
Their few coins went to the cancer sticks,
an addict can't live without his poison, without his fix.
They finished their business and theft,
gathered up themselves and left.
They were the duo that defined a lost generation,
they were the children of sin, they folded to temptation.
She drank her stolen yogurt, and he stank of cigarette smoke,
wearing torn jeans and leather jackets, completely broke.
They walked the grim, gray street,
They had no goals, so they just followed their feet.
---
Fabien Belcourt - 12/2006
