Montparnasse

Oh hotel door, with your two green plants

which will never

bear any flowers,

say: Where are my fruits? Where am I planting myself?

Hotel door, an angel stands outside you

handing out leaflets

(virtue has never been so well defended!).

Give me in perpetuity a room at the weekly rate.

Oh bearded angel, you are really

a lyric poet from Germany

who wants to get acquainted with Paris.

You know that between its paving-stones

there are lines which one must not step on.

And you dream

of spending Sunday at a mansion out of town.

The weather is a bit oppressive and your hair is long;

oh good little poet, you're rather stupid and too blond.

Your eyes look so much like those two big balloons

floating off in the pure air

wherever chance takes them...