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Writer's pictureDavid Em

Uber Gruber


 


I went to a gig in town,

It was a let down,

An age-ed Britpop band with one hit,

You would’ve found it funny,

A heritage act only in it for the money.


So I stayed out,

Should’ve done without,

Stood around in a club that was shit.

Then went to Pommes Frites,

4 hours too soon,

Thought I’d been destined to howl at the moon.


But in the cab, a surprise, a surprise...

The driver had such familiar eyes,

His accent German,

Made for TV,

John Phillips suit,

A bit slimmer than me.

‘Clay’ it said on his laminate tag,

But I knew him as Hans,

Oh deadly Hans.


I know what kind of man you are, Hans.


“Where is my 20%?” he said.

“Where is my 20%?”

“On a beach with my 20%” he said.

Left in the red,

Left in the red,

Never trust the banks,

Buy condos instead.


“If you steal 600 dollars you can simply disappear, but if you steal 600 MILLION they will find you unless they think you’re already dead,” he said.


I answered only with a nod

Good God…

Why is every traffic light as red and eternal

As an unwanted season?


If only he’d listened.

Yes if only he’d listened...

Only listened to reason, to reason he said.

To Karl and Theo,

To Heinrich,

To Fritz…

He’d have stayed well-financed, well-financed and slick.


“Where is my 20%?” he said.

“Where is my 20%?”

Left in the red,

Left in the red,

Could have been uber rich but now just a rating on Uber.


Left in the red,

Left in the red...


Crawling the nights in this taxi instead.


When home at last I left him a tip,

Only words not money,

I said:

“Hans, booby… I’m not being funny,

I’m you’re white knight.

Driving a taxi may not seem right,

But it’s better than jail,

Or than falling,

With Rolex abandon,

And having only thin air to stand on."


“Where is my 20%?” he said.

“Where is my 20%?”

Could have been uber rich but now just a rating on Uber...

Crawling the nights in this taxi instead.


Escape, at last.


He called me a bum,

Tore off, seeing red.

I climbed alone once at home,

Into bed.


But noticed for all his posturing,

All his little speeches,

He was nothing but a common thief.


I’d handed him a twenty, not a ten.









 

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