At the foot of dark walls, beating the skinny dogs,
Oh ! as true as the bells are bronze,
our hearts are full of despair !
In June, eighteen seventy-one,
massacred by black being,
We Jean Baudry, we Jean Balouche,
having accomplished our wishes,
died in this ambiguous belfry,
[firm in our] loathing [of] Desdouets !…
Behind [his waistcoat] jumped up and down in grotesque hiccups
a swallowed rose in the porter’s belly.
Dark-haired, she was sixteen when they married her.
For she is on love with her seventeen-year-old son.
[The Complaint of the Old Monarchists to
M. Henri Perrin, a Republican Journalist]
You have lied,
on my thigh bone ! you have lied,
tawny apostle ! You want to turn us into
ruined men ? You’d like to skin our bald heads ?
But I have tow thighbones, twisted and embossed !
Because everyday at school you sweat enough
on your suit collars to fry a fritter;
because you’re [as false as] a dentist’s disguise,
a bald riding-school horse frothing at the mouth
and long in the tooth as well, you think to wipe out
my forty years of office!
I have my thighbone ! I have my thighbone ! I have my thighbone !
That’s what I have been twisting for forty years
on the edge of my well-loved hard walnut chair;
the imprint of the wood stays always on it ;
and I, when I behold your impure organ,
all your subscribers, buffoon, all your subscribers,
handling that sloppy organ in their hands,
I shall touch them, for all tomorrows to come,
with this thighbone which has been worked on forty years !
[The Complaint of the Grocers]
Let him enter the shop when the moon
is reflected in its blue panes,
let him seize under our noses tins of chicory
being staved in?
It is a cook-chef snoring like a bassoon.
Among the gold and quartz and porcelain objects,
a common chamber-pot, unseemly reliquary
of old Ladies of the Manor, round its
shameful sides on the royal mahogany.
Oh! the eternal vignettes!
And the poet, drunk, stormed at the Universe.
LINES FOR PLACES
Of this seat, so badly shaped that it
ties our bowels in knots,
the hole must have been botched
by some genuine blackguards.
When the famous Tropmann
destroyed Henri Kink, the murdered
must have sat upon this seat;
for the Badingue and Hanry V,
the cunts, are truly very worthy
of a seat in this state [or, this state of seige].
It is raining softly on the town.
See to it, O my absent life!