MANICHAEAN
01-22-2011, 03:02 AM
LOST SOUL IN PARIS.
It was at the Hotel de l’Horlorge,
That an Englishman, aptly named “George,”
Was seated at three,
Drinking afternoon tea,
Oblivious to all those around.
He had concerns for his soul,
Unperceived life’s future role,
And pondered on how to be free.
For whatever the cadence,
With dreams in abeyance,
He considered he could not go on,
Then be rather dead,
Take a shot to the head,
Than suffer to just look upon.
In the stick that was life,
Where perils were rife,
Joy was never much more than a gambit,
The staff’s head you might sit,
But if fate was ill-fit,
More on the shod iron of the crampet.
No taciturn Scot of fixed hard outlook,
Or Welshman who dreamt of the valleys,
But Albion’s own chose to move his own rook,
His spirit to stiffen and rally.
Outside was all gay,
On that bright Paris day,
And down on the Faubourg St Germain,
The lovers held hands,
And gendarmes made plans,
Of how to make sure crime did not pay.
In the Elysee, the same,
Sarcozy he came,
To attend to l’affairs de La France,
And in Brittany fair,
They breathed in the air,
Brought over that sea called “La Manche.”
But back to our tale,
Of this man they called “George”,
Afraid of losing his soul,
What must he retain?
And more important, “sustain?”
To ensure he kept his life whole?
So the senses he listed,
And considered them each,
The practical, and even those sensual,
Deficiencies none,
The full total sum.
That to man was considered essential.
And food was the first,
With drink also thrown in,
For his brain was outliving his liver,
Other organs were dead,
Except for his head,
Where his thinking continued for ever,
He thought of James Boswell
His tastes were discerning,
For rabbit washed down with good porter.
Ortolans he scorned,
Burgundy, never mourned,
For dining would he brook no mean quarter.
No sin of servility,
But repose in tranquillity,
Flesh of whelps he consumed to his full,
And fresh quail & soft sparrow,
Gnawed down to the marrow,
Till his belly was pleasantly full.
Soul, go not to the North where the gales lash the coast,
Go not to the valley Sunrise,
Nor to where the sun sets, and existence’s a bet,
Or the south of indulgent surprise.
Return to the city of which you were born,
Of surroundings familiar and fair,
Work and desire till sorrow forgets,
And quietly you sleep in your chair.
The writer has power to pull you all through,
The past he is always conveying,
Through dark labyrinths,
Of caverns of thought,
Or is he just with your mind playing?
Operations in life are sometimes performed,
And sometimes without anaesthetic,
But reality’s face is also adverse,
To those that choose not to gainsay it.
One’s love of old friends grows deeper as fewer,
And idle talk, no longer discerning,
Whenever we meet the soul has returned,
It’s being on fire and burning.
And George on this day, he felt his cheeks glow,
The blood it danced through his limbs,
“Stay with me my Soul and share of the days,
That Providence, trust me, will bring.”
It was at the Hotel de l’Horlorge,
That an Englishman, aptly named “George,”
Was seated at three,
Drinking afternoon tea,
Oblivious to all those around.
He had concerns for his soul,
Unperceived life’s future role,
And pondered on how to be free.
For whatever the cadence,
With dreams in abeyance,
He considered he could not go on,
Then be rather dead,
Take a shot to the head,
Than suffer to just look upon.
In the stick that was life,
Where perils were rife,
Joy was never much more than a gambit,
The staff’s head you might sit,
But if fate was ill-fit,
More on the shod iron of the crampet.
No taciturn Scot of fixed hard outlook,
Or Welshman who dreamt of the valleys,
But Albion’s own chose to move his own rook,
His spirit to stiffen and rally.
Outside was all gay,
On that bright Paris day,
And down on the Faubourg St Germain,
The lovers held hands,
And gendarmes made plans,
Of how to make sure crime did not pay.
In the Elysee, the same,
Sarcozy he came,
To attend to l’affairs de La France,
And in Brittany fair,
They breathed in the air,
Brought over that sea called “La Manche.”
But back to our tale,
Of this man they called “George”,
Afraid of losing his soul,
What must he retain?
And more important, “sustain?”
To ensure he kept his life whole?
So the senses he listed,
And considered them each,
The practical, and even those sensual,
Deficiencies none,
The full total sum.
That to man was considered essential.
And food was the first,
With drink also thrown in,
For his brain was outliving his liver,
Other organs were dead,
Except for his head,
Where his thinking continued for ever,
He thought of James Boswell
His tastes were discerning,
For rabbit washed down with good porter.
Ortolans he scorned,
Burgundy, never mourned,
For dining would he brook no mean quarter.
No sin of servility,
But repose in tranquillity,
Flesh of whelps he consumed to his full,
And fresh quail & soft sparrow,
Gnawed down to the marrow,
Till his belly was pleasantly full.
Soul, go not to the North where the gales lash the coast,
Go not to the valley Sunrise,
Nor to where the sun sets, and existence’s a bet,
Or the south of indulgent surprise.
Return to the city of which you were born,
Of surroundings familiar and fair,
Work and desire till sorrow forgets,
And quietly you sleep in your chair.
The writer has power to pull you all through,
The past he is always conveying,
Through dark labyrinths,
Of caverns of thought,
Or is he just with your mind playing?
Operations in life are sometimes performed,
And sometimes without anaesthetic,
But reality’s face is also adverse,
To those that choose not to gainsay it.
One’s love of old friends grows deeper as fewer,
And idle talk, no longer discerning,
Whenever we meet the soul has returned,
It’s being on fire and burning.
And George on this day, he felt his cheeks glow,
The blood it danced through his limbs,
“Stay with me my Soul and share of the days,
That Providence, trust me, will bring.”