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Callum Z. Blabber has had some time off this week, from the daily grind of updating former and current guests of Loveless Motel, or luring new ones. Far from getting away as originally planned, he's found himself stuck in his Aluminum City quarters, going through old boxes of shit he should have tossed years ago, cleaning cat boxes in "the cat room", and otherwise busying himself while his money sits unspent in his surprisingly healthy trust fund. His guilty pleasure, pursuit of a latent career in cabaret as a one man band has been on hold but he's even carved out a few hours of time to practice, despite the complaints of his nearby neighbors who complain that the thin tin can walls of a trailer seem to amplify the sound. He's shrugged off the complaints and invited a few of the biggest complainers in for drinks and mini-concerts, and things have calmed down. His medley of Piaf tunes is particularly popular - he brings some of his pals to tears with his version of Non, je ne regrette rien, but they liven back up when he transitions to L'Accordeoniste. Some of the guys are Certified Hustlers - it's like being in home territory. Since he can't sing and play the harmonica simultaneously, he hands out lyric sheets. It's a fucking party! The Accordionist The prostitute is beautiful (lit. Girl of pleasure) Over there on the corner She has a client Who fills her stockings up (pays) When her job is done She goes on her way Looking for a bit of dreams At a dance hall in the suburbs Her man is an artist He's a strange, little guy An accordionist Who knows how to play the java (a dance) She hears the java But she doesn't dance She doesn't even look at the dance floor And her loving eyes Follow the vigorous playing And the wiry, long fingers of the artist It gets under her skin From the bottom, from the top She has the urge to sing, it's physical All of her being is tensed Her breath is held it's a work of art shaped by the music The prostitute is sad Over there on the corner Her accordionist Left to be a soldier When he comes back from war They will have a house She will be the cashier And he will be the boss How beautiful life will be They'll be true big-shots And every night for her He'll play the java She hears the java That she hums softly She looks again at her accordionist And her loving eyes Follow the vigorous playing And the wiry, long fingers of the artist It gets under her skin From the bottom, from the top She has the urge to cry, it's physical All of her being is tensed Her breath is held It's a work of art shaped by the music The prostitute is alone Over there on the corner The girls who are sulking The men don't want And too bad if she dies Her man is never coming back Farewell to all of those beautiful dreams Her life is fucked Nevertheless her tired legs Take her to the dive (dance hall) Where there's another artist Who plays all night long.... She hears the java She listens to the java... She closes her eyes... Those wiry, vigorous fingers It gets under her skin From the bottom, from the top She has the urge to yell out, it's physical And so to forget She begins to dance, to turn To the sound of the music... STOP! Stop the music...