I guess he needed my wallet more than I did
As I walked away from the cashpoint 
On Boulevard de Magenta
Down the street from the fleabag joint
We were staying in
He came up behind me
right arm coming over my shoulder, 
knife held to my throat
his left arm clenching my chest
to hold me back like a boulder

Whispering ‘Doucement, doucement…’
Not quite the French sweet nothings one likes to hear
Whilst strolling through Paris in winter
With a lusty buzz from a couple of beers

Again, but grunting through clenched teeth
‘Doucement, doucement…’ 
Il n’avait pas de l’argent
I guess

I kept his knifehand at bay
By pushing it the other way
with my own two hands
Never quite removing it as a threat to my immediate wellbeing
(truth be told, I’ve made stronger stands)

The traffic lights had just turned red
As my girlfriend began hitting him on the head 
with her bag
And I shuffled with him clinging to me
Like a limpet
As I emerged from the sea
Into the middle of the emptied street
Whilst thirty or so 
Onlookers took in the show

As the Parisian drivers realised that 
I had just created a roadblock 
To the freedom provided by the impending green light
They began beeping their horns and yelling
Giving the Algerian a bit of a fright
As I refused to move from the middle of the road
Green gets flashed from the light
He relents and runs to the opposite side
I stand in place between the lanes
Waiting for the gap 
in the cars so I could return to my side of the river
But wallet still in tact