Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Why we hate the French

August 12, 2009

They bottle bath-water and call it Perrier
They eat poor froggie’s legs then throw the rest away
They eat raw garlic and invented croquet

That’s why I hate the French,
That’s why I hate the French

They all wear berets and they’re all called Jacques,
They even steal from us the words they lack
Le weekend, Le Camping and cul de sac
That’s why I hate the French,

That’s why I hate the French.

 

And All their songs sound more or less the same
La la la la la la la la………je t’aime

France’s existence is such a shame
That’s why I hate the French,
That’s why I hate the French.

They bake their bread in such a naughty shape
They brag about their wine and worship the grape
They criticise our food but then they eat loads of crepe
That’s why I hate the French,

 That’s why I hate the French.

And now they started coming here in their droves
French cigarettes, French letters and French clothes

That prick Van Gough cut off his own earlobes

 

That’s why I hate the French,
That’s why I hate the French.

For breakfast they have croissant or French toast
And there’s always some French letters in the post

But it’s their accent that I hate the most

That’s why I hate the French,
That’s why I hate the French.

They’re pretty cocky ’bout their games in the dark’
They think with girls they light a special spark
Look what the bastards did to Joan of Arc
That’s why I hate the French,
That’s why I hate the French,
That’s why I hate the
French.

Les Fleurs du mal

August 6, 2009

Le Soleil

Le long du vieux faubourg, où pendent aux masures
Les persiennes, abri des sécrètes luxures,
Quand le soleil cruel frappe à traits redoublés
Sur la ville et les champs, sur les toits et les blés,
Je vais m’exercer seul à ma fantasque escrime,
Flairant dans tous les coins les hasards de la rime,
Trébuchant sur les mots comme sur les pavés
Heurtant parfois des vers depuis longtemps rêvés.

Ce père nourricier, ennemi des chloroses,
Eveille dans les champs les vers comme les roses;
II fait s’évaporer les soucis vers le ciel,
Et remplit les cerveaux et les ruches le miel.
C’est lui qui rajeunit les porteurs de béquilles
Et les rend gais et doux comme des jeunes filles,
Et commande aux moissons de croître et de mûrir
Dans le coeur immortel qui toujours veut fleurir!

Quand, ainsi qu’un poète, il descend dans les villes,
II ennoblit le sort des choses les plus viles,
Et s’introduit en roi, sans bruit et sans valets,
Dans tous les hôpitaux et dans tous les palais.

Charles Baudelaire

Goodnight

July 11, 2009

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.