Call me a pragmatist
But what is Paris but a feeling
Built on inadequacy and imaginations
With streets you’re expected to Rue
Pickpockets smoother than the chocolat
Cafes full of fanciful bread and wine
A modern fantasy isn’t it
Just like the art that sits on walls
For you to be vexed at
A mere 50 euros, madame
The accents undeniably patronizing
Or just the flavour of le Francais
Home to the finest of fashions
A mecca for the connoisseurs of sequins
And fringes on bags and shoes and hair
A little walk down Champs Elysees
Disapproving clicks from the petit cheries
Radiating their way to champagne and caviar
The incroyable lines outside the Eiffel
The view of magnifique gardens
You will never be able to navigate to
Alas, these imbecile tourists
Buying up souvenirs (if the exchange rate is favourable)
I guess the food’s chic
Baguettes and cheese (like in Subway)
The Seine lethargic, ferries enthusiastic
A fine opportunity to say Bon Voyage
En route your pedestrian expeditions
You take to afford eau de cologne for your mother
Which probably smells very bourgeois,
French for a joke.
(I really didn’t spend too much time in the city but it was very nice and expensive and overwhelming and this is just commentary on how everything we perceive is built up in our heads.)