A man with a match in his hair

He got on the tram. A man of African origin, dressed in an immaculate dark suit. Middle-aged, bespectacled. He sat on the only free seat left. A man like any other, especially in a big city like this. Then we looked at him again. There was something odd about him… A match was half buried in his thick hair! I looked at my fiancee. We winked at each other, smiled, hypothesised. It could have been his naughty grandchildren playing a prank on him…. The tram rattled on but I could not shake off this strange feeling of déjà vu. Then it struck me! Of course! The cult Polish band The Elektryczne Gitary (The Electric Guitars) have a similar song! The Man with a Leaf on His Head.

Wikipedia

These are the lyrics, I hope I translated them correctly
(if not, feel free to propose corrections):

Man with a Leaf on His Head

A man with a leaf on his head got on the bus
No one wants to help him, no one tells him anything
Everyone just stares, everybody just stares
and nobody does anything

A man with a leaf on his head is sitting in the bus
It’ll take some time before he learns about the leaf in his thin hair
He just stares out of the window, he just stares out of the window
and he does not do anything

Watch out! These are not clouds, it’s the Palace of Culture
Leaves are flying from the trees, leaves are flying from the trees

That man with the leaf on his head is sitting in the bus
No one wants to help him, no one tells him anything
Everyone just stares, everybody just stares
and does nothing

Another man, just like the first one, got on the bus
Compassionate, he told him all about it
The first one patted his head and took out the leaf
Because, he says, I’m from the woods, because I’m from the woods

Watch out! These are not clouds, it’s the Palace of Culture
Leaves are flying from the trees, leaves are flying from the trees

(http://teksty.org/elektryczne-gitary,czlowiek-z-lisciem-na-glowie,tekst-piosenki)

And this is the song. Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pt3g8HPwDSc

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The Shitty Streets of Montmartre

Those
fabulous
inclines
and
curves
and
stairs
The
portraitists
lurking
like
vultures
The
vendors
The
tack

The
buskers
living
their
dream
in
the

city of

lights

in June
when the days
are endless
and
you feel
you must make
the most of it
until you drop
dead tired

The
Indians
with
rucksacks
packed

like schoolbags
making

a
fortune
selling
beer to the
crowds
who come here
in search of their own
version of the

romantic city

The priest

in that church
on the hill,

the Parisian Taj Mahal,
stressing

the word fils with gusto
The local patrons

in cafes
enveloped in endless
endless
endless
debates
The bronze Dalida
her bust

polished

like door handles in the Elysee

the views
the views
the VIEWS

The tower of Montparnasse
like a finger

a message to the peeping toms
to stop looking
as
there’s nothing there to see

The merciful rain
washing away all the shit and dust
So that
the next morning

it can start all over
again