Post by bisdu on Jan 15, 2015 0:29:04 GMT 1
Thought I'd share one of my poems from my look at french life
Does my bum sound big in this?
“You ‘ave a problem wiz your arse!” the Frenchman said to me
I don’t zink zat your cheeks are quite ze shape zey're meant to be
Well, I thought this comment tactless - and extremely impolite
And to allude to my rear end like that, was spoiling for a fight.
Quite hurt, I turned accusingly, demanding why he’d say that?
I’ve always thought my buttocks cute – and not an ounce of fat
‘Mais oui,” he said, “your bum is chic - with zat I cannot bicker
In fact ze very sight of it, does something to my ticker
‘But, your accent’, he enlightened me, ‘zat’s why I speak zis way
Just roll your arse so zen we’ll know what you are trying to say
*
I’d only said - I’d been to Renz,(Rennes) to buy myself a rug
But my words had just been greeted with a puzzled Gallic shrug
‘Where is zis place?’ he said to me? ‘I’ve never ‘eard of zhere.’
Is Rennes some tiny village at ze tip of Finistere?
‘You must know it,’ I’d said, perplexed, ‘main city of Bretagne?’
It’s larger than the whole of Brest - and twice as big as Vannes.
Follow the route – N 1 6 4 – along the dual lane
And very soon you’ll find this place in - south Ille et Villain.
*
‘Ah Rennes!’ he rasped dramatically, saliva rolling round
Leezen to me carefully, its ‘RRRRen’ we call zis town.
But it’s no good, I’ve tried - and I can’t get the hang of it
It’s a failing that we British have – we do not like to spit
But why do Frenchmen wonder we don’t speak their lingo better?
When they themselves cannot be arsed to say the final letter
And why is it, I want to know, that pain is pronounced pan?
And wine despite the middle ‘i’ is called by Frenchmen ‘van’
I think sometimes they make it up, to try to fool us Brits
It’s a cunning plan, they speak in code to make us feel like twits.
But should he come to Angleterre our friend could meet disaster
Coz there’s some things we Brits can say, that he will never master
A thousand things the French can’t say – (though none of them is bum)
Like thoroughfare and thread and thigh and think and thrill and thumb
So I’ll get my own back, asking him ‘what’s the opposite of fat?’
And what day follows Wednesday?’ and lots of other things like that
Such as what comes after twenty-nine ; what number’s before four?
And do you know the Viking God of Thunder is called Thor?
Now, I love France - and most things French, I think it’s true to say
And I’ll try to speak the language - in my in-im-itable way
I will promise not to perm my horse or try to ride my hair
As I strive to learn the differences ‘tween chevaux - and cheveux
And I’ll drop my aitches, every one; address my friends as tu
Though I’ll never hear that nuance ‘tween the sounds in au dessoo! (dessus/dessous)
And if I make a bad mistake, feel free to set me straight
But not one word about my bum – or that will seal your fate.
Does my bum sound big in this?
“You ‘ave a problem wiz your arse!” the Frenchman said to me
I don’t zink zat your cheeks are quite ze shape zey're meant to be
Well, I thought this comment tactless - and extremely impolite
And to allude to my rear end like that, was spoiling for a fight.
Quite hurt, I turned accusingly, demanding why he’d say that?
I’ve always thought my buttocks cute – and not an ounce of fat
‘Mais oui,” he said, “your bum is chic - with zat I cannot bicker
In fact ze very sight of it, does something to my ticker
‘But, your accent’, he enlightened me, ‘zat’s why I speak zis way
Just roll your arse so zen we’ll know what you are trying to say
*
I’d only said - I’d been to Renz,(Rennes) to buy myself a rug
But my words had just been greeted with a puzzled Gallic shrug
‘Where is zis place?’ he said to me? ‘I’ve never ‘eard of zhere.’
Is Rennes some tiny village at ze tip of Finistere?
‘You must know it,’ I’d said, perplexed, ‘main city of Bretagne?’
It’s larger than the whole of Brest - and twice as big as Vannes.
Follow the route – N 1 6 4 – along the dual lane
And very soon you’ll find this place in - south Ille et Villain.
*
‘Ah Rennes!’ he rasped dramatically, saliva rolling round
Leezen to me carefully, its ‘RRRRen’ we call zis town.
But it’s no good, I’ve tried - and I can’t get the hang of it
It’s a failing that we British have – we do not like to spit
But why do Frenchmen wonder we don’t speak their lingo better?
When they themselves cannot be arsed to say the final letter
And why is it, I want to know, that pain is pronounced pan?
And wine despite the middle ‘i’ is called by Frenchmen ‘van’
I think sometimes they make it up, to try to fool us Brits
It’s a cunning plan, they speak in code to make us feel like twits.
But should he come to Angleterre our friend could meet disaster
Coz there’s some things we Brits can say, that he will never master
A thousand things the French can’t say – (though none of them is bum)
Like thoroughfare and thread and thigh and think and thrill and thumb
So I’ll get my own back, asking him ‘what’s the opposite of fat?’
And what day follows Wednesday?’ and lots of other things like that
Such as what comes after twenty-nine ; what number’s before four?
And do you know the Viking God of Thunder is called Thor?
Now, I love France - and most things French, I think it’s true to say
And I’ll try to speak the language - in my in-im-itable way
I will promise not to perm my horse or try to ride my hair
As I strive to learn the differences ‘tween chevaux - and cheveux
And I’ll drop my aitches, every one; address my friends as tu
Though I’ll never hear that nuance ‘tween the sounds in au dessoo! (dessus/dessous)
And if I make a bad mistake, feel free to set me straight
But not one word about my bum – or that will seal your fate.
