When you're grilled forty-six years under the French sun, you become inured even to the French tongue...

Le Chant Royal RECIPE:"Poulet Roti" French Style - One, Two and Three

(Note: Rhyme scheme of "Le Chant Royal" where capital "E" stands for refrain, thus - Stanza: ababccddedE, Envoi: ddedE)

I

If as for so many LIFE solutions
Come bottled in prescriptions
Like the burning SOUL's hunger for PEACE
Through LOVE and FORGIVENESS with ease
Then just take mescalin or cocaine
Eat grass and flipout on heroin
Make pavement music for a dime
And sleep fifteen hours per diem
The rest on analytical meditation
Linked to some fad reincarnation
Go sit at feet in fairy Dharamsala
Peace Prize awaits at Himalaya
Sol de France franchi
Terre d'Asile

II

LIFE's a bit more complicated than that
Caretakers and providers less delicate
Know much about managing the State
To hide their lack of proper mandate

FORGIVE the slut who scorns her son
Pusher who pounds veins with poison
Sly socialist nurse who steals your sleep
To compensate cohorts the slut to keep
The son's will, broken by Masonic whip
Turned patricidal spy in their secret grip
Sol de France franchi
Terre d'Asile

III

The sub-plot of Portuguese landlords
With Maghrebin tenants rude as toads
All out to drive the octogenarian
Into the cesspool of bloody oblivion

Like playing Black Sabbath Iron Man backwards
Imitating Arabo-Hebraic Peace talks inwards
While the lêche culs lusitano-ibériques
Thrust their crude porc chops histrioniques
Sol de France franchi
Terre d'Asile

(to be continued)
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017