I like to take to the streets,
I am a flâneur, and dressed that way,
Wrapped in sartorial splendours, distinguished, remarkable.
The ladies in their petty coats skip along these cobbles,
baring their heels to gentlemen in waistcoats smoking cigars,
Who shoot this autumn breeze with curt words of labour and love
A lady sits outside a Parisian café holding a cigarette between her fingers and rolling it back and forth causing wisps of smoke to spiral off.
She is demure and shrugs off every eye that captures her gaze.
She nonchalantly reads the municipal gazette as a tornado kicks up a fervent storm around her.
The dandies down on the tiles have their boys waiting for them much like the greeks,
For there is no relationship more beautiful than that which exists between two men,
They know this but don’t understand it
And achieve only impotence in their endeavours
Much like the wretched longing of their loins.
A carriage rolls by carving a trail through the sludge and filth that makes up this road
A wrist suddenly appears at the window and a white feathered handkerchief is dropped as the carriage rolls on through the fish market, and the beauty that sits in the carriage fades and withers as the carriage drags her through life like a fickle fashion.
Oh that fashion is so fickle
and so ugly and wretched
that it must be changed every month to save the mirrors from cracking
Oh and if love weren't so fickle
then why are divorce, cuckoldry and betrayal so rife
If something was ever cherished in this life
then surely it would be love?
For my love is more love than most,
and my fickle fancy more changing than most
but i will love you more than most
even if you change.
For my love is bigger than your love
. Remember this and sleep well