Joie and History
Almost nothing can be written
that hasn’t been wrought
Paris stands abreast myriad brush
and keyboard plot
Blood’s run in the streets before
but that was very then
I hesitate to sleep to wake and
find the death toll bend
You’re the peoples’ jewel since
seventeen eighty-nine
Your cobbles touch the feet of
miserable and fine
Your corps has long accepted
quite a moribund pastiche
But Sartre just bumped his head
when bombs were switched
Who can take away l’esprit and
gallant Parisian light
But the ones who choose to be the
Paris of the night?
I will wander soon with you and
dawdle in your lanes
To breathe your lively mists that
joie and history claim
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