The late autumn sun glistens on the Pont Neuf
You inhale your Gauloise and exhale with a cough.
We sit by the Siene at our usual store
The one that still blasts out Lynott and Moore.
The music is loud and - Oh, so sensational !
In contrast to your silence which is - Oh, so existential.
I pour the Pastis into our glasses
And we drift away from the madding masses.
I imagine the sky viewed from inside a tree
Just like "The Outsider" which I read to thee,
You say it is late - I must leave now with you
Fuck that! Give me Pastis, a hollow tree and Camus.
