The Shitty Streets of Montmartre

Those
fabulous
inclines
and
curves
and
stairs
The
portraitists
lurking
like
vultures
The
vendors
The
tack

The
buskers
living
their
dream
in
the

city of

lights

in June
when the days
are endless
and
you feel
you must make
the most of it
until you drop
dead tired

The
Indians
with
rucksacks
packed

like schoolbags
making

a
fortune
selling
beer to the
crowds
who come here
in search of their own
version of the

romantic city

The priest

in that church
on the hill,

the Parisian Taj Mahal,
stressing

the word fils with gusto
The local patrons

in cafes
enveloped in endless
endless
endless
debates
The bronze Dalida
her bust

polished

like door handles in the Elysee

the views
the views
the VIEWS

The tower of Montparnasse
like a finger

a message to the peeping toms
to stop looking
as
there’s nothing there to see

The merciful rain
washing away all the shit and dust
So that
the next morning

it can start all over
again

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