Waiting, waiting in line at the phone booth,

Waiting for African women to finish their long-distance scream

at distant relatives in Zaire

going through stacks of change like steaming belgian waffles.

At last I find a vacant phone booth, only to be beat there by

one of the omnipresent old ladies of Brux-elles.

("Why" I moan "does 'public' have to mean 'shabby'?

waiting in endless lines, grime, sweat,

the miserable smell of wet wool in winter

ancient metallic armpit sweat in summer?)

"Granma suckin' on her teeth wearin' her regulation

granma uniform;

she knows she runs this town,

she know she got it all sewed up.

Ain't no room in this town for weirdos, outcasts,

foreigners.

No room at all.

Granma waddle into the tram backin' up everybody behind,

by god, they got it all sewed up.

Regulation granma uniform,

fur coat an' hat in winter,

ugly print dress in summer.

Here comes the tram, packed to the teeth,

only had to wait 45 minutes this time!

So, everybody out, Porte de Namur, last stop for everybody on this thing,

best shopping in town,

(if only, if only, please jesus, please!)

Granma,

Granmaman,

I'm gonna break in yer door,

gonna rape yer dog,

gonna jack off on yer fur coat,

look out look out

I'm the one who's gonna get you

I'm waitin' in the corner when you go to the cash machine

It's me, it's me

c'est moi,

look out,

"Whachoo lookin' at asshole?"

"Turn yer eyes the other way or I'll put 'em out with a

fuckin' lit cigarette."