The Sergeants

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In Djibouti, the sergeants
Strut about, they’re happy
It’s Saturday, payday
Their necks are like pillars
Small heads and big feet
And red all around their ears

In Djibouti, the sergeants
Rush off to have some fun
To the brothel on Rue d’Paris
Those ladies are there, waiting for them
They’ll get their money’s worth
Enough to dream about till Monday

In Djibouti, the sergeants
Coming from nowhere, out of the ranks
Don’t find life dull at all
Truth is, here they’re kings
Yet sometimes it happens
That their heads feel a bit empty

Must be the heat here
It’s easily fifty degrees at noon
Doesn’t help with thinking
When you think, it’s about your health
Here it’s easy to catch
A nasty sore on the penis

In Djibouti, there are beggars
No eyes and no teeth
Sometimes they’re missing a leg
Surely, the sergeants think
And what keeps all these beggars alive
Is still France footing the bill

In Djibouti, when evening comes
At the meeting place of the hopeless
On the demarcation line
At the hour when good French folk sleep
Perched atop watchtowers
The sergeants fire away