Tabucci

Waiting for Pessoa in mid-day Lisbon
Try to keep cool when the sun is shining
He's not coming, you make a decision
Come back at midnight

Get in to a taxi and start to panic
The driver's lost and has no map
And you decide you have to stop and
Change your shirt

The gypsy woman in the market selling
Looking through them you make your choice
Of Lacoste shirts with the crocodile missing
What's you colour?

Drive to the graveyard to visit your dead friend
Look him and revive his corpse
And you share a meal, like old-time weekends
Eating sarambullo

We love your stories Mr Tabucchi
We never know who is alive or dead
We only know they don't make sense
You call them novels Mr Tabucchi
We never understand the ones we've read
We're not too smart, we don't pretend

You need to lie down at the Isadora
For ninety minutes to come alive
And you're offered comfort by Viriata
But you turn her down

You ask the barman for apple Sumol
He gives you Jarelas Verdes dream
And tells you to buy O! Publico
Just like the French

The artist in the gallery after hours
Copying Bosch in miniature scenes
Sells them with a sense of humour
To Texas ranches

Catch a train to visit the lighthouse
Just like a scene from Virginia Woolf
The roof has gone and you can't recall how
You could write there

We love your stories Mr Tabucchi
We never know who is alive or dead
We only know they don't make sense
You call them novels Mr Tabucchi
We never understand the ones we've read
We're not too smart, we don't pretend