Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/58

56 A tourist horde from every land that’s underneath the sun— That little wizened Spanish man, he misses never one. Oh, foul or fair he’s always there, and many a drink he buys, And there’s a fire of red desire within his hollow eyes. And sipping of my Pernod, and a-knowing what I know, Sometimes I want to shriek aloud and give away the show. I’ve lost my nerve; he’s haunting me; he’s like a beast of prey, That Spanish man that’s watching at the Café de la Paix.

Say! Listen and I’ll tell you all… the day was growing dim, And I was with my Pernod at the table next to him; And he was sitting soberly as If he were asleep, When suddenly he seemed to tense, like tiger for a leap. And then he swung around to me, his hand went to his hip, My heart was beating like a gong—my arm was in his grip; His eyes were glaring into mine; aye, though I shrank with fear, His fetid breath was on my face, his voice was in my ear: