Senile neices make a scene on the Seine
ever since they got a slice of the pie
nice, nice, nice ... eels along the river isle
ice in a tall glass of Coke, sight unseen
lice inhabit my shaven head, all lies
else I should wait in line to see through sin
Neices drink bottles of demi-sec
elixir of the soul and recite Poe
if it means les ivres avec des livres
can touch their toes, this pain makes me feel sick
every day I wake up to pay my dues
shuffle to the window to watch the sun
Run away little runaway, I wish
en France, à l'Île de la Cité, les ciels
crushed my eyes and blood flowed instead of tears
infest this body with typhus, a rash
to suffer in silence offers no thrills
endless, as I float downstream without oars
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