Poetry Archives

France is the fairest land on earth,
          Lovely to heart’s desire,
And twice a year I span its girth,
          Its beauty to admire.
But when a pub I seek each night,
          To my profound vexation
On form they hand me I’ve to write
                    My occupation.

So once in a derisive mood
          My pen I nibbled;
And though I know I never should:
          ‘Gangster’ I scribbled.
But as the clerk with startled face
          Looked stark suspicion,
I blurred it out and in its place
                    Put ‘Politician.’

Then suddenly dissolved his frown;
          His face fused to a grin,
As humorously he set down
          The form I handed in.
His shrug was eloquent to view.
          Quoth he: ‘What’s in a name?
In France, alas! the lousy two
                    Are just the same.’