They'Ll Always Have Paris Poem by gershon hepner

Catherine Deneuve calls her blue moods
spiders upon ceilings,
but I believe they’re platitudes
that gall with Gallic feelings
the lives of French folk who’re frustrated,
palming off pomposity
to those who do not feel deflated,
as they do, by morosity,
joie de vivre now as dead
as Beauvoir’s Jean-Paul S.,
a dead god who’s no longer read,
as dead as God, and less
significant than departed francs,
which makes them all most neuro-
logically unstable while France tanks,
Titanic as the euro
not so very long ago,
but heading now for ice,
sinking very fast below
their Paris paradise,
which they’ll always have, of course,
for it cannot be taken
from them, however far off course,
however much mistaken.