I am a man of peace, not war.
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I have gone where tourists go.
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I have been where life is sweet
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and stayed where pleasure grows.
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In France, then, to be undone
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I left Calais for the world;
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three lifts saw me reach Paree,
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I came upon the Arc D'Triumph.
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Down into the bowels of Paris,
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confused by my own bad French,
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I made friends with Steve and Pete
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with whom I shared a dorm.
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Thirsty that warm May night,
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we bought three two-litre beers,
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gutter-sat, as wide-boys do,
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we drank and watched Paris move.
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We drank Stevie's lager too,
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he was too engaged in talk
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with a tall Finnish blonde
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with whom he hadn't a hope at all.
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He said he'd like to give her one,
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we just laughed him off,
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we went to our hostel beds,
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I dreamt of girls all night long.
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Up at seven, showered and dressed,
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I was off to sunny Spain,
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our football team, the Glasgow Gers
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had reached Cup Winners Cup,
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the final was in Barcelona.
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Up the Gers! Here I come!
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Or so I thought at the time,
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odd how life takes strange turns.
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Breakfast in the Kellerman Park,
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Steve told me all about Mannheim,
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three days of rock extravagance
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at a village called Germansch.
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I may have been a Rangers fan.
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I may have been football daft.
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I even had my Rangers scarf!
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But it was not to be.
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Fate steered me then to Rock-an-Roll,
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I was ready for the road,
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no more going to Barcelona,
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but the road to rack and ruin.
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I took the Metro to the suburbs,
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and hitched with ease on to Meaux,
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half-an-hour - on to La Ferte,
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then minutes late on to Metz.
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Nine o'clock and in Lorraine
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by the Moselle yet again,
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now one year older, wiser too
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I wandered Metz's platzs and rues,
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