It's gray and rainy outside,
as it always is here.
By the Rathausplatz, off to the side,
past the tents with beer,
the Hungarians with their wine,
the Thais with their smiles,
the tents and people go on for miles.
The French guy asks for a pack of smokes;
the Kiwis grilling seem like fine blokes.
The Danes sell different kinds of hot dogs,
and the Estonians serve nothing but grog.
The Argentines prepare nothing but meat,
and they tell me that my accent is neat.*
Eins, zwei, eins, zwei, drei.
Soundcheck erfolgt, eintritt frei.
Round midnight the crowd starts to clear.
The mood turns ugly, and people jeer.
Some look for trouble, aimed at queers.
To the Birdcage, I work my way in.
If I don't, the idiots win.
Smoke in the air, choking my throat,
it's like we're behind a great big moat.
As the night goes on, my head starts to float.
I made it home with nary a hangover.
Save one very smoked-out pullover.
I'm not a night person, especially so late.
When I get tired I begin to grate.
But is this all there is in this little city?
I certainly don't need more self-pity.
With all of these people, I still feel alone.
Of course, there is no place like home.
If I were wearing slippers I'd click them together.
Like Dorothy did in that spate of bad weather.
Did a tornado pick me up and carry me here?
To this land of sausages and watery beer?
Why does it feel like I'm the only queer?
My head still spins, four years later.
Bis später, alligator.
*I got asked, 'Sind Sie Bayerisch?' That is a big improvement over the 'Sind Sie Nederländisch?' that I got from my neighbors when I moved apartments last year.
