Bunk-bed Blues

Lorca, day 4.

It´s three o´clock in the morning,
Finally there´s no snoring,
The bunk bed´s made in China,
The woman above me spent too much time in the diner,
When she moves,
I shake with the bunk bed blues.

I tipple a jar,
In Hemmingway´s bar,
Now it´s up hill and dale,
Every perigrino has a tale to tell,
We live in a magic mystic spell.

I woke up this morning with blisters on my mind,
My good feet gone and left me,
A long, long way behind,
Now I got those lowdown walking blues.