XXLove letters   

 

 

When the mill was turning,       

 

No one alive was supposed to see Francoise,

Only three bright exceptions,

Very obedient children,

Obedience wasn’t for us,

The people that didn’t shop on Christmas Eve,

And sailors that sailed away and never threw an anchor,

I was surprised ‘We are the same’,

Bric-a-brac shops crammed cobbled alleys, 

There was quite a line waiting outside,

The desert island of hummingbirds,

What a wonderful motley flock!

It’s always fun to have them around,

As a guide I informed,

‘It’s Moulin Rouge’,

The last survivor the windmill is turning,

They have early shows,

Service a la russe’,

The long queue had been piously waiting for a generous serve of bread and games,

The Paradise garden with dancing bunnies promised a lot,

 

The air in Paris is always horny,

The crowd was ready for circus, lust, sex,

 As a friend I issued an urgent flood warning,

‘They are neither angels nor girls,

They are nectar eating, covered in fake jewels,

 

Fluttering, murmuring, laughing, lustfully purring catnips and raggle-taggle half-dolls and half-birds,

They put brains out of service,

They take the best care of broken hearts,

They put all pieces together,

With them elevators are always working,

No one gets stuck,

No one falls through the looking glass’,

You wanted to know her past,

My guess hadn’t hit the gold,

 You were not an aspiring writer,

 You were an aspiring painter instead,

 And every painter must have a model, a brush, a palette and a ghost,

You were obsessed to know her story,

I liked killing my life with you,

I promised to tell you,

 

It was my excuse to see you,

‘Yes, the last time we talked on the phone,

How could I forget to tell you?

The downside of cheap rent,

Your neighbors are business girls,

   For the time being accept it,

It’s your sweet home,

It’s Pigalle,

 It appears to be the kingdom of sleaze,

I disagree,

No,

It’s the district of hardworking girls,

Red light wreaths look great on its doors’.