Paris Poem by Kevin Patrick

She makes me second guess my ever move
never ever letting me in on all the rules
and in the skeletons parlour,
keeps me reproved
so disarmed by etiquette
and confide to be effete
this cruel theater of wars
made me an extra by defeat



Still, old Paris cruelly pestilent in spring
Beneath bronzed Champs de Mars
mime crocodiles sing
luring naïve crowds
with their Chanson stings
for a taste of victory
is carnages drunken industry
enough to fill your stomach
with ulcer sores of culture



Now the Continents still mourning
its nouveau youth
and Bismarck's ghost is playing Yahtzee
on the board of Europe
Stravinsky and Niginsky panacea
will be solid proof
Its a Titanic Masterpiece
with sprightly riots on the streets
aristocracy are sinking
waving to maids so tediously


Industries precision is the key
trade churches for sweat workshops
to solve our truths
and the world will stop complaints for peace
here comes a gilded golden age
with happy crowds on parade
Right before the Archduke had
a few bullets left for lunch


And I am the son of a ghost
Here to offer you her holy host
and the four horsemens bride
Of war, famine, death and pride