Le Mime Jean-Baptiste Prêche Aux Âges Encore

You look so gaunt and flame-eyed, slumping thereTall as a bird's nest, skinless, plover-beakedWhile buzzing Montmartre girls with honey hairSmoke reefers and caress your withered cheeks

The fearsome gendarme and his sullen houndGlare at the migrants from another worldThere's no baptisms here, just traffic soundsLike locusts, and your rictus fingers curl

At dusk you count your offerings in the streetShuffle toward the metro in the rainRide hours to snatch a squalid fevered sleepUntil tomorrow's dumb show starts againBut I still hear you, mumbling on the windMake straight the way—and—wash away your sin.