Romantic Thoughts on Paris by Paul Murray

The last time I saw Paris,
or the first time. I can't say,
I saw Audrey Hepburn's beatnik dive
where poets' bongos play
"She must be rescued", said dull men
who fretted and wore gray.
She only wants to cross some river,
cross in style someday.


I hung there during April
and penned charts for Calloway
who ended every piece with same -
two triads up to "A".
He raised and held an upright bass
and prodded me to play,
"Boy, when them last two measures hit
stop dead. Don't fade away."


I saw a painting from Pay-ree
of sun rising for day,
lifting from a riverbed
where colors dance and play
as orthodox art disciplines
were cut to fall away.
"Just honest, true impression here".
That's all the painter'd say.


We'll do the town by taxicab -
"Longchamps by Champs-Elysees,
spin on by the Moulin Rouge,
to Rue Dupetryn, "I'll say.
He'll drop us where American
expatriates all stay.
They'll invite us in for un grand
old petite dejeuner
avec brie, pains et petit fours
and ripe aged cabemet.


The first time I saw Paris-
I must confess to say-
well, it hasn't really happened yet,
but it won't always be that way.
We'll do the Arc, the Tower and
we'll see the Louvre's display,
and hang at some patisserie
where Django CDs play,
then picnic from Provern;;e for us
by Monet's stacks of hay.
A basket for nobody else -
just us two, s'il vous plait.


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