. September 9th 1901… A September evening in old Paris town, The time when Parisians let their hair down. There’s laughing and dancing and folk getting drunk, And all of the ladies are looking like punks. It just needs an artist to capture the scene, But Toulouse-Lautrec is nowhere to be seen. There’s lots of shenanigans down by the Seine, Where couples are “at it” again and again. With long-legged females, their busts hanging out, And randy old guys who all year go without. A talented painter would have lots of fun, But Toulouse-Lautrec, where the hell has he gone? The pimps and the hookers are having a ball, In the seedy back alleys behind the Pigalle. As bright-painted ladies with sailor boys flirt, Whilst doing the Can-Can and lifting their skirts. His easel and brushes should be here today, But Toulouse-Lautrec, he has drifted away. In bars and in brothels, you hear them all say, “We haven’t seen Toulouse in many a day. He used to call by for a drink and a nap, And spend time with the ladies who gave him the clap. But at just thirty-six, he’s been laid out to rest, It’s 'Farewell old friend,' you were one of the best.” . . Jeff Eardley lives in the heart of England near to the Peak District National Park and is a local musician playing guitar, mandolin and piano steeped in the music of America, including the likes of Ry Cooder, Paul Simon, and particularly Hank Williams.