The Expat's Flat.

In the previous post, I reminisced a bit about my expat days. As much as I loved them, I saw some guys who seemed a little lost. I wrote this one night in my Russian hotel with them in mind...   

The Expat's Flat

Cold dirty stairs smell like the '50's

Or maybe something older

A door with a hole from a welder's fist

'Cause his beer wasn't gettin' colder

The buzzer was rung, the guard he nodded

And that was that...

All the way up to where you'll hit rock bottom

Knock on the door of the expat's flat

He said a woman would answer

But she looks like a little girl

A shot of insulin, some vodka on the side

His Fridays and Saturdays swirl

He rubs her back then goes lower

His eyes red and rollin'

He makes enough here to blow it on lust

But it all seems so stolen

The buzzer was rung, the guard he nodded

And that was that...

All the way up to where you sell yourself out

Knock on the door of the expat's flat

Grown kids back home don't know he's here

It ain't his first time lyin'

Years before was Thailand on the sly

While their mother was back home dyin'

But he named his price and it was paid

The dirtier things are the bigger the rat

Good luck gettin' out if you sneak your way in

If you knock on the door

Of the expat's flat...