Well, the maps were quite ghastly, you know; We’d assumed the Frogs would have a pleasure cruise, All baguettes and brioche, up the straits.
They fall upon us over the spillways of time, Burbling at us through some Radio Free Nostalgia Courtesy of some college station sitting at the far left of the dial Or streaky CDs at the rear of some forlorn shelf,
We’d make the journey, all but Hannibal-esque in nature, Either on foot (even on the most dogged of the dog days When the antidiluvian tar on our side street would bubble up,
See that under the cow? That holds the stuff of life, so pick it up and drink, don’t just kick it.
They walk—no, more likely, they saunter, Embassy functionaries, associate profs at G-Dub, A smorgasbord of polka dots and vitae, Of leopard-print and Linkedin pages,
She slumped by the archway of the Chapel, Forlorn, beaten in fact; She had come to these grounds from Plattsburgh, (Cold, martial little city home to General Wood’s summer flings) To lay a wreath she’d bought near the train station at Bayeux Purchased from a women at a small shop table, Who’d had the grace […]
It was one of those places which, We were told with stern faces and tones And the occasional smack to the butt, That we were not to go,