Les Français, they say, have minds refined,
But their thoughts have clouds, a stormy sign.
With each remarque, they make a frown
As if the sky is falling down.
They sip their vin, yet curse the glass,
For joy’s fleeting, too swift to clasp.
In cafés small, with heads held low,
They sigh as if they always know—
Future’s dim, c’est la fin du monde,
Nothing is right, it’ll all explode.
And while Liberté sounds divine,
But even freedom has its time.
Their poètes write of love’s cruel art,
Of dreams that fade and hearts that part.
Les rues de Paris grown with gloom,
As shadows gather spelling doom.
Oh, to be les Français who arise
To welcome the world with leery eyes,
To speak in sighs, in rueful tones,
And call chez eux a house of bones.
Yet in their glumness, there’s a grâce,
A kind of beauté none can replace—
For through their doubts, their endless strain,
They teach us new ways to complain.
*The sky is falling
© 1973, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
