La La La: Gypsies Tramps and Thieves

You had a charming air
All cheap and debonair

Though I did not speak her language, I understood her sound. One of exhaustion, abandonment, of quit. Yet, the beggar’s plead possessed an air of trickery. Once she gained my full attention, I realized why. She had the appearance of an ancient gypsy. Her body was covered by an old tattered rag that exposed only her shoeless feet and wrinkled head. From her crown emerged a glutinous red texture - unmistakably - her brain. I found this not inconceivable, but incredibly intriguing. The beggar was professional, and she was quite good at her business. Watching the poor tourists forced into her trap amused me. Her eyes would glimpse up and with her shaky hand present the tiny tin can. The tourist would drop the money, pity her, and continue on their tour while she would empty the can. I was inspired by the beggar. I needed to know the city. How alien it all felt I could not help but meander the real grounds.

And so she took you in

I fled the commercial district, left the merchants herding their cattle and set off. The homes raised a great distance over my head, leaving damp shadows on the narrow roads. The streets themselves could hardly be called streets at all. By stretching my arms I would touch buildings on either side at the same time. The stories these roads must hold, I thought with envy. Each decision to turn enveloped me deeper into it’s heart. Tourists did not wander here; they were content gawking at historical sites they’ve all seen many times in pictures and paintings. To me, this was the sight to see. I passed two souls, neither of them well-spirited. I was on my own. I had no direction other than the slightest slope towards the main dock. Lost in the city I was happy.

But, oh! What providence!
What divine intelligence!

I then imagined the gypsy, not as the beggar, but as she lived her life. I created a fictitious character with a strange atmosphere. She existed here; not now, but many years ago with a son whose father left for sea. She was left to piece their lives together, and the gypsy was forged out of desperation. These streets chronicled her deceptive life. This fabricated story would remain with me long after I left that place. Occasionally my mind would refer back to the beggar and her city, but quickly revert back. Until I heard this song. The Mariner's Revenge memorializes the story I created for her, and the life I felt, being lost in the city.