Below is the poem entitled Paris Of Plaster which was written by poet
McCabe. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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Close your eyes, my Helene, and I'll take you
on the most romantic of all journeys,
where we'll flee somewhere that makes all previous beds
seem as mere hospital gurneys.
Ah, come closer, we'll ignore those dire warnings
of the Weather Forecaster.
Mais non. Je dire, je sais, Non! C'est pas comme ca,
not our Springtime In Paris Of Plaster.
Free, we'll walk the tin-foil Champs D'Ellysie,
past vibrant green Rhubarb Cafes at night,
lit by crazed halos of teaspoon lamp-posts
setting the mood, je ne sais pas? Just right.
We'll pay homage as Wilde Morrison's grave,
fallen corroded tailpipes of respect,
see the flower off'rings, burnt graffiti,
insolently shrug with all due aspect.
Then, we'll follow the shag crimson carpet,
that most revered of all rivers, the Seine,
to get lost 'midst it's gentle, constant flow,
mais, marche pas trop longe avec cette moyen,
because we'll miss seeing Victor's Hugo
swinging atop the old Eiffel Tower,
His Miserables pull hard to ring them bells,
begging, scowling, a racket of power.
Let's storm our Bastille, the Janitor's door,
find freedom and bottles of white-wash bleach,
rid ourselves of this place, and become clean,
all that, and more, is still within reach.
Je t'aime plus que tous Doctors and Nurses,
we're not slaves to such over-done masters,
nes pas des mots pour ci nous comprendre,
let's discover our Paris Of Plaster.
Forget past promises, long since broken,
we'll run 'neath the Arce Du Triomphe's shadow,
it's passage, a short, conceded distance,
our ev'ry step will, of course, ring hollow.
We'll both embrace Redemption in callous crypts,
underground grottoes, those of short sips,
resurrected, we'll climb up to the streets,
breathing Paris Of Plaster past our lips.
Rains will come, melt all that is of worth,
a candy-cane taste of mist in our mouths,
the Weather Forecaster may chuckle in mirth,
not knowing our love's above his souths.
Our simple vacation's become a voyage,
coupled, we'll laugh as rains fall faster,
a l'atar du Notre Dame Puis Fromage,
we'll witness, pray in Paris Of Plaster.