I hate Paris.
Paris has you now, I have you never.
I hate Paris, its posh ladies
prancing around with their Hermes scarves
and their elegant shoes and pouting mouths,
waiting to eat you up, or at the very least
chew a piece of you and spit it into a cool Bree bag
to use later when you might be alone.
I've been there too, walking along the river,
ill equipped to bring you into my fold.
I always feel poorly in Paris,
though I love the bread and coffee.
You’re walking the streets of stinking Paris
not thinking of me, and for that I hate Paris.