Amid outdoor furniture, alight,
on concrete concourses of the night
he stands, atop the French police,
wielding the bloodied fleur-de-luys,
lustily crowing and thumbing his nose
at the prospect of the high-pressure hose.
We can drink up his lager grin
as his fist lands on another chin
attached to someone seeking to restrain
his torching of the city, ere he boards his train.
“I will tear away what is not mine”,
“I shall roam and leave my sign”,
“When I pounce in the park for some r & r”
(o-ho charmer, how came you there?)
“Putting on airs won’t go very far”
(Nothing not ours has a right to care.)
“We’ll decide what amounts to fun;
When your tolerance is overrun”.