Madame sits peeling potatoes for my dinner beneath her
Sloppy breasts and Monsieur watches the drinkers in his
Cafe with the merciless eyes of a cat and the men play
A game with six balls in the town square and enjoy it
Because it costs nothing and the fountain in the square
Spits without scorn or majesty or flattery into
The face of a dull french heaven reflected in the pool
Which squats like a slippery toad in the heart of Mougins.
I hate these people who put their fingers around happiness
After first spitting upon the palms of their hands. They
Hold their heads high after a day's work because there is
Nothing else to be proud about. They have a grave-yard down
The road not far because horses are scarce and men hard to
Get who will carry another man's troubles without pay.