Howard Firkin
You never see a beret in Paris.
Or baguettes borne in baskets on a bicyclette
that's pedalled by a pertly pony-tailed petite Parisienne past
ululating youths and flat-capped workmen
sitting at the wrought iron café tables
drinking their anise and playing dominoes.
No. Poster Paris is passé.
But then, what isn't at my age?
Or baguettes borne in baskets on a bicyclette
that's pedalled by a pertly pony-tailed petite Parisienne past
ululating youths and flat-capped workmen
sitting at the wrought iron café tables
drinking their anise and playing dominoes.
No. Poster Paris is passé.
But then, what isn't at my age?