C’est N’est Pas Cher, Man
Alun Buffry (1977)
Mirhleft is a village grand,
Made of pink rock and yellow sand.
It’s good to lay besides the sea,
Or sit and watch, just you and me,
The sunset or the street outside,
Where nothing changes with the tide.
I dream that we can ride a bike,
Or catch a bus, even hitch-hike,
Up the valleys, over mountains,
In search of rivers deep and magic fountains.
Then I return into this room,
Where all the morn and afternoon,
We can lay and smoke and play,
Yet in this place one has to pay
Five dirhams a gram,
“C’est n’est pas cher, man!”