Sens d’humour excised at birth
but schooled in ridicule.
Langage distorting the mouth.
Monkeys with Mick Jagger lips
condemned to a permanent pout.
With their enunciated phrases from Molière,
their superior aristocratic scowls.
– Who d’you think you are, Johnny Halliday?
Consider the curse of le pauvre Parisien
Thinking themselves thinner at the café philo
or dodging dogshit in the place du Cliché.
Watch as they set their sharp shoulders
and stride directly into opponent pedestrians.
They disdain apologies as the mark of fools
– Ha! These collisions are not accidents!
Ah, suffer les pauvres Parisiens!
Stuck like flies in their own tourist trap,
exposing themselves in art galleries,
permitting themselves to dress in any shade of black.
Suspicious, defending their steam-blasted corners,
pour le vrai Parisien every joke is mockery
and behind their code of kisses
conjugated by their own contempt.