Des de Moor
Lyrics

They are the odd men out who live by ink and pen
Whose lives are lived as each new season comes along
They cross the evening mists, these strange and thoughtful men
With footsteps like the birds that fly on wings of song

Under a Paris bridge they’ll sate their souls on wines
Their wealth is measured in slim volumes never sold
The only wives they have are clichéed closing lines
From tales of lust and love in songs you know of old

They paint grey paving stones with colours as they tread
As if they walk on waves on far imagined seas
They breathe in city air and breathe out words instead
And tie bright ribbons round our dull old ABCs

And sometimes they have dogs for company in pain
Who lick the bitter ink from soft and friendly hands
Such faithfulness that sets their muzzles all aflame
Lighting the lonely ways through absurd forsaken lands

These are the odd men out that look at blooming flowers
And see a woman’s smile in a petal’s aureole
These are the odd men out that sing of desperate hours
To pianos of the heart and violins of the soul

They look at their bare arms and imagine them as wings
Chasing the tails of words across the open sky
Then falling to cold earth as ghosts on rubbish bins
Where with a turn of phrase once more their verses die

They walk among the clouds, their heads are in the street
They know each horse and bird and have kind words for each
They walk in abbatoirs with corpses at their feet
Their thoughts are far beyond the executioner’s reach

There’s surely space on Earth to let their words fly free
To paint a paradise in bargain basement rhymes
Though some would lock them up and throw away the key
In case words ring too true in these complacent times

Translation: Deptford, 29 June 1999

Originally recorded by Léo Ferré 1960, now available on Avec le temps... (Barclay)
This version recorded by Barb Jungr on Chanson: The Space In Between (see opposite).