What would you ask for from Paris?

There was a very slight chance I could have been off to Paris this weekend. Not Paris in Mpumalanga, the European one. The rest of the office is going. I’m left to ‘hold the fort’- read ‘looooser’. Nah- I didn’t push for it because Neen is away in the States- someone has to be a loving and committed parent. Sniff.

So my boss asks me- he calls himself my colleague, but I have immense respect for him, so to me he’s my boss-colleague- “What do I want from Paris?”

Hmmm. No lewd Jokes about the heiress, please, this is not a youtube video, and I don’t understand women with Chihuahuas in fleur de lis bags.

I smiled, enigmatically, but didn’t have an answer- is this a question I’m supposed to have an answer for, stashed away in case the question ever crops up? Do YOU have an answer? How about if I asked you, if clothing was flavoured, which would it be? Would you have an answer then?

Well, boss, here’s my answer:
What do I want from Paris?

A kickass suit from Yves Saint Laurent, to strut down the Champs Elysee,
A thrice woven wool, preferably black, genuine Parisian Beret,
Not too fond of les eux, but I’d like un Bordeaux,
As I wander through Paris in Spring,
Yes, lilies and onions and garlic and roux
Are terribly wonderful things.
I’d grow un moustache, and store up a cache
Of art painted in a café
Then wait till the artist ate a bad escargot
And make la fortune in a day.
I’d be able to sneer without moving my face
In a way that is terribly French,
And sit, with baguette and a bicyclette
In le Jardins, on a bench.
To smoke les gauloises,
For hours and hours
Yes, that seems quite pleasant to me.
So boss, I hope you
Have saved le Euro
To pay for the excess baggage for all the stuff from Paree.

Yes, I know the last line doesn’t scan, but who gives a stuff?
What would YOU want from Paris?

And this is NOT a poetry blog, ok?