No chocolate in the Duty Free shop. Two drops of scotch gonna end up on his crotch tonight.
All alone, sittin on the throne. Some native tongue on the TV, blaring like an old Peavey. He don't aim to be rude.
He's fighting with his inner Prude.
Some pommes frites and you know it's gonna drip on to his lap
yes, see the man slapping it off.
Travellin' will do him in, trudging through the waves of people
'till his heart is cluttered and feeble.
If you take him out of his loop, he may be very easily duped.
Still he beats the stampede for the Duty Free. He's using up all that old currency.