Oh, but in France they arrange these things much better!
M. Bertrand who always, before kissing the female wrist
rolls the r in charmante
admits he owes everything to those golden Sorbonne years.
Now, returned to our forest, he is sad and nostalgic,
indeed, pained; he winces when his brother says icitte.
O, he can never forget fair Paris, its culture and cuisine,
particularly as he stalks deaf and hungry
among the barbarians who never were seasick.
Still, he has one consolation—the visitor from abroad,
the old classmate, the conférencier, perhaps, even
a bearded maitre of the Academy.
Then is he revived, like a dotard by the Folies Bergères,
revived, stimulated, made loquacious with argot,
and can’t do enough for his guest, but would lavish on him
jowl-kiss, hand-kiss, and other kisses Parisian.
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