Paris Latin Quarter

Sweet Marie-Anne, she thought Being French, intellectual and brunette Entitled her, in any Parisian cafe To prompt service—and she was Probably right, (as the Policeman Later confirmed)—always provided The situation was normal, and She herself did not let the race down. So that afternoon, she said to me: “Sit by me,mon cheri, and order A drink!”—Well! The waiter came As was his duty, only to stand aghast At the unspeakable scandal of a Full-blooded French woman kissing This merde of a black man openly and Full on the lips!—Purebred son of The Galls, his first impulse Was to smash his tray at the black head And shriek out for help to the army of riot Police permanently stationed on the streets Of the Latin Quarter . . . —But He was a non-violent man, and besides, He had the customer’s tip to think of. So he turned to me, swallowing hard, and With controlled French politeness, he said: “M’sieur, please sit OPPOSITE the lady— “Yes, with the sacre table between you, face To face—Or mon cul, dammit, I shall Not serve you!”—And I was still wiping off Her lipstick, wondering what to do, when my lady Spoke, her face red with indignation: “But You’re mistaken! This one’s not like the rest, “Can’t you see! He’s a bon sauvage, and has Written such brilliant essays in impreccable French “On the phallus of—pardon, the merits of Negritude! Show him my dear!” she turned to me, “Show how well “You quote Molière, Corneille, and—” But the waiter Was already smiling and bowing: I had passed my test.