Sunday Afternoon At the Cemetery


So here I am at the cemetery,
An odd place for a Sunday walk;
But I don’t walk in the West End, dearie—
Ain’t got no clo’es to show off.

All the chaps here, that sleep in peace,
They don’t give a care for the troubles we got;
Bad news is peanuts to chaps like these—
They’re like the Senate, a “nice ‘n easy” lot.

The cemetery, it’s much like the city, see?
They’ve got “poor quarters,” a small simple plot,
And rich ones, where “comfortable families”
Who have a bale of money—rot.

It’s a cinch that beggars and “people of taste”
Have got to be buried each to his side,
When really it’s plain as the nose on your face
That we’re all right equal after we’ve died.

Could it be that it’s mere hypocrisy
Makes them build these fine cenotaphs?
Could it be all the fine poetry
Is a pack of lies, in the epitaphs?
Or else you’d think that possibly
Only the good people come here to rest!
See, for instance, “To the Fond Memory”
Of “Mother Dear,” and Husband Dearly Missed”....

You must admit that in most homes
It’s a cats-and-dogs fight most’ the time;
But when one of them dies— what moans!
What groans! —you’d laugh to hear them whine!

The woman sometimes, or maybe the gent,
Becomes an “angel” to th’ one who survives—
A perfect soul—a holy Christian saint...
Seems like one improves, after one dies!

Before those rich stone monuments
With weeping angels at the posts,
I don’t see people praying, bent....
They don’t need it, those that have the most.

Around here—all these wealthy mounds—
It’s odd, I don’t feel somehow at my ease:
I rather walk to the common grounds
Where you find people praying on their knees.

With those little crosses, leaning to one side!
And vanishing in the grass, along the swath!
All’s white, as if the hoar frost came at night
And covered up this garden of death!
I see a woman there, poor dear,
Down on her knees b’fore the grave of a child.
It’s too much for me, it breaks me up to hear:
She sniffles— it’s the crying she tries to hide.

Poor thing, she’s weeping for her little angel
Gone back to heaven without any fuss.
Personally, I don’t see what he’s lost.... He’ll
be better off than here, and it’s no loss.

That never asked to come into this world,
And never asked, neither, to leave.
No use crying now. His blond tiny head
Would hardly have known what ‘tis to grieve.

Me, too... someday I’ll have to come
To rot here, once for all at last—
In one of those fine cooperative tombs
Under two laths of wood nailed across.

Think! I’m gonna to be a landlord here.
O yes, me boys, I’ll not be paying rent.
I’ll have my own piece of land, my six feet square,
No need to work, just like a gent.

I’ll have my six feet under, four boards, right?
(They say “four boards” — but why not six?
After all, a coffin, if it’s to be air-tight,
Has to have boards at both ends, by jinx!)
I’ll be dressed in black from top to toe,
The face clean-shaved, a rose-bud mouth—
All dolled up like a poet for show,
Going to dine with the lit’ry crowd.

Once dead, I’ll be well off, I guess.
And high time too, after all’s said and done.
The good lord knows my long distress,
Will find me a nook in Heaven when I’m gone.

Hey, you’ll see my name, and my address,
Printed in the “Deaths”, three days full.
To think that you’ll be reading about me in La Presse
And me not there to see it, after all!

I’ll be through with “splitting my gut”;
I’ll have my “piece of land” ‘thout fear of harm.
And think, I’ll be sleeping in my spot—
‘n never have to jump for the alarm!

The fear of death, why, it’s all foolishness.
I don’t see why people dread the deep;
After all, it can’t be much worse than life is:
That’s what I always say when I go to sleep.

A Rant Against An Idealist


Strikes me you’re a bit off your rocker,
What is it that’s not to your taste?
Have you lost some of your marbles?—
Eccentricity like that’s just a waste!

I swear by my rotten rags, you’re not well,
Ever complaining, ever downcast;
When every year you have the Parade
To remind you of “our glorious past”.

Your country dear, to you it’s not fine?
As a”Canayen” you’re not in tune?—
When the band plays “Yankee Doodle Dandy”
And the trumpets blast, the 24th of June?

And you don’t get the patriotic cramps,
And you’re not proud as a hunchback,
To see all those allegorical floats
With the names of big stores on the back?

I guess not, you’re an idealist,
Who’s dying to have a real art show,
‘Stead of being like these practical guys
Farting with good health and making dough.

Okay then, plug away, be a good chap.
Postpone your dreams, stay honest and learn.
In the meantime, they won’t lose their chance
My boy, to screw you at every turn.

They need honest people, goodie-goodies,
The sort that let themselves be had;
‘Thout that, how would the bastards thrive?
They wouldn’t have a chance to get so fat.

You just get ugly by your greed.
Believe that, if you have it in heart,
Especially on an empty gut...
But take care not to rock the boat!

Look, you’re a “Canayen,” and a Catholic
What else do you need, my good man?
Swallow the bile in the spit on your chin,
Snicker and grin! You’re the lucky one!

The Down-and-Outs Pay Homage to France


And we, poor beggars who’ve never had a chance,
And live as we must, God knows how,
We have no gift for lecture jaunts
Or speeches that loud cheers can’t drown,
Like those fine gents in fancy pants
Who are masters at talking like they’re profound.
But when the shout is “Vive la France!”
Our simple hearts turn upside-down.

We lack what you call eloquence
In making verses featly blown;
Seems we’re no good at making sense,
And seems our language makes you frown.
But that, you know, makes no difference,
So long as the heart’s truth is known.
And when the shout is “Vive la France!”
Our simple hearts turn upside-down.

Up from our years of innocence,
From the time our mothers rocked us ‘round,
We’ve had this love, and its memory haunts
Frenchmen who settled on this ground—
Men of high courage, who feared no chance.
We can’t forget this past renown.
So when the shout is “Vive la France!”
Our simple hearts turn upside-down.
In all our pleasures, all our pains,
In all our songs, we’re French all found.
And even the God we reverence
In syllables that have an awkward sound,
We address with words that come from France,
Words that our fathers have handed down.
So when the shout is “Vive la France!”
Our simple hearts turn upside-down.


























































































from J’Parl’ tout seul quand Jean Narrache (Selected poems)
1963

The Charity Balls


Now that cold December’s here,
the season’s in with Charity Balls.
People up top are jigging, I hear,
for folks like us whom poverty galls.

In all the swank posh hotels
they’re going to dance a couple of nights, 
for the great benefit of poor devils
who wear out their soles under traffic lights.

Grand Euchre and Charity Ball!
Sweet young things will get themselves pawed
by grim old turkeys, grey and bald:
But that’s fine! The poor will have their reward!

Dames old enough to have more sense
reveal their all in the very nick,
drooping their posies without offence
for students, young, but they know the trick.

Goes without saying, I’m deeply moved
to see the great so generous
that they can pay, and get themselves pooped
for the mere love of folks like us.

And little gents in codfish tails, 
their collars choking at the neck,
dance cheek-to-cheek with storks and quails—
it’s all for the poor, and you pay by check!

Think what we owe ‘em in thanks, by Gar,
for risking indigestion, Sirs,
dancing and stuffing their fat craw
with Laura Secords and fine liqueurs.

It’s all for the love of your poor scruff
that the ladies have taken up these tricks. . .
Just think, there’s many a dress there costs enough
to feed through the winter a family of six!

Winter Night on Rue Ste-Catherine


Saturday night, on St. Catherine street,
The crowds of people buckle and flow
Pushing in front of the window displays
And shuffling through the chocolate snow.

Ah, yes, the snow, like cottony scud,
White as our dreams, our hopeful talk...
How quickly it turns into dirty mud
As soon as it touches the sidewalk!

The crowd itself, that’s like a tide
That whitens where it overflows,
Becomes a herd, half-terrified
By the noise that blares wherever it goes.

And yet, the city looks alive...
The moan of suffering from the dregs
Is lost in the traffic of the cars
And the busses, packed like crates of eggs.

There’s old folks here; and there’s the young—
They walk, they gape, they chatter and laugh.
It makes you think that pain and wrong
Might fade—our hearts have had enough.
Many a couple are taking a stroll, 
Arm in arm, with all the world in bloom;
While the old, alone, and with troubled soul,
Must walk—or return to an empty room.

Electric lights, of yellowish green,
Flash off and on, as they chase around:
Through the theatre midway can be seen
All the best movies now in town.

The good old movies, what a world!
Full of high life and grand amours,
They make you forget for just a while
That poor, flat, common life of yours.

And for once you’re happy, free of cares,
As you’re sitting in the picture show.
I’ll bet that even millionaires
Forget their ulcers when they go.

Finance companies offer good rates
To all the poor cruds who want a loan;
They’re usurers, who’ve got licence rights
To soak the poor for all they own.

The half-starved head for some eatery,
Get stuffed with pasta and hot-dogs;
Swill coffee hopped up with black chicory,
Fooling awhile their hunger throbs.
Some others think they’re doing fine
If they head for the night clubs, where they sink
And listen to French singers whine
While they sit sipping watered drinks.

The singer shows her breasts all bare,
The words are kind of risqué, too,
But still it helps to banish care,
And the daily grind fades off from view.

Others will gorge till they’re obscene,
Have an expensive eating spree
Where they regale on French cuisine
And guzzle wines from gay Paree.

Ah, yes! that famous French cuisine—
All fixed up by Italian cooks
In restaurants served by English teens,
And owned by men with Syrian looks!

The wine they drink is a real stinger
With the holy seal of the Q.L.C.,
A regular toilet-water vinegar
That’ll give you indigestion free.

Poor rubbies to the drugstore slink
For shaving lotion or worse to swill;
And those with stomachs on the blink
Come to have their prescriptions filled.
Some walk the pavements in black thought,
Gaze empty-eyed, and hump-backed with grief....
Some hit the tavern for a couple of shots,
Dog-tired of life, get pissed for relief.

O yes, the tavern’s a real comfy spot!
A ritzy place, right in our class.
With hand on jaw, and elbow taut, 
They study the foam on the greasy glass.

Then slow ‘n easy sip their beer...
—Make a face, like there’s a taste of tar!—
Forgetting all their troubles here—
Wife, and the kids, seem very far.

‘Cause here, they’re free of the brats at home,
Don’t see the woman, her toil and sweat,
Don’t hear the baby puke and moan,
Or the kids refusing to go to bed. 

And yet, a couple with a dream in their eye,
Who’d like to have “a place of their own,”
See cradles and cribs in a window display—
And in the crowded street, they’re happy alone!

They’re all hope, it seems, and life is fair!
They see themselves in their little nest,
She’s all to him, he is all to her—
They’re in a bliss of happiness!
Yes, happiness!... And it’s worth the while
To stop in the street to see them there,
They’re happy, among the endless file
Of people living in cold despair.

It helps one to bear this life, someways,
That’s such a bitch to the oldster crew—
Since it recalls those magic days
When we too were young, and love was new.

We’ve Got Accident Insurance


Because we’ve been working so good,
The boss has a gift for us, Gents,
Everybody’s being insured
Against working accidents.

If I come to harm some day,
Rather than starve and scoff
I’ll be getting half my pay
All the time I’m being laid off.

And if, on the other hand,
I get killed in an accident,
My wife will get one grand
Right after the funeral’s end.

Just think now, a thousand sure!
With money like that she could buy
A nice little candy store—
She could live like a queen by-’m-by.

She could have a nice comfy life,
These restaurants pay, as a rule;
Joe could go on to the High,
And Jeanne to a convent school.
A thousand bucks! If I’d go bye-bye!
Then my family could live posh...
Hell, it’s not that I’m scared to die—
But I want to live too, by gosh!

A thousand bucks! It’s no small affair,
And my wife rich, once and for all.
Good Lord, I’d be happy for her,
If I got killed one day in a fall....

No Learnin’


No, a Communist I’m not.
For the unions I care not a jot.
And for the capitalists I make no fuss:
I mean no harm to the boss.

I say, time and again, it’s my fault
I ain’t got a comfortable spot;
I could have been rich as anyone
If only I’d had the education.

When I was a kid I hated books.
School, barely six months I took;
And so, I scrounge for what I lack
Like a flea on a stray dog’s back.

At Christ’s Manger


Little Jesus smiling in a manger,
Holding out two chubby hands,
Born in trouble and in danger
To help the poor in their demands....

You know that I’m the one disabled,
Who’ve less than donkey, cattle, or herd;
I’ve sometimes found a common stable
Was the only place I could afford.

I’m the lost beggar on the road,
Who goes away, bundle on back;
But I speak your Credo as I go,
And of your mercy I never lack.

It’s no great treasure that I bring,
Since neither gifts nor riches stead;
I’ve only my heart for an offering,
And the streaks of silver on my head.

That’s all I have... I’m sorrowful
To have nothing more, to heed the call,
When many who have their whole arms full
Never know how to give at all!
Ah, to think that you came upon the earth
To bring us joy and comfort both—
That men should be brothers from their birth
Rather than at each other’s throat.

To think that you came down from your glory,
Down from your fine home up in Heaven,
And yet there are many who doubt the story
And refuse to accept the words you’ve given.

We know how suffering maims and scars,
How misery festers everywhere;
We have murders, massacres, and wars—
Because men will not hear your words.

Not only that braggarts and bullies spread
Their noise and hatred through the air,
But see, Lord Jesus, how the ill-fed
And innocent, suffer with none to care.

*

Little Jesus, smiling in a manger,
Holding out your chubby hands:
Have pity for those in trouble and danger—
Even if they do not understand! 

The Game of Golf


It seems that business men on high
When they get bored with telling lies
And spending other people’s cash
Play golf and relax with other guys.

For golf’s an aristocratic game,
For lawyer’s men and deputies;
It’s the pastime of diplomacy
When they need a rest from legalese.

They play the game with sticks and balls,
With rounds of swearing and high-priced drinks,
When the ball flies, and the “scotch” flows,
Of course they’re happy as larks on the links.

They hit the ball with a great round sweep
So that it falls into a small hole.
When it goes badly they’re fit to kill,
And when it goes well—they take a swill.

It’s crazy p’raps, but I think it’s the same
As the game they play from day to day;
To fool the world, they get in a clutch
Then give a whack, each in his way.

The poor buggers—that’s us—the balls,
These fellows whack with the hard pole.
They’re proud when they swindle us with one shot,
And they’re glad when they drive us into the hole.

Christmas Time


Christmas is coming, the time for gifts,
As every store and paper reminds us, 
Santa Claus’ will be here in three weeks;
He’s the little Jesus of our times.

...To think that Santa Claus has taken over,
Oh, little Jesus of my childhood thoughts!
Is it true that you are out forever
In the beliefs of tiny tots?

While everybody’s getting strangled
In the stores, I look and pass them by,
Alone, my hands stuffed in my pockets...
I’ve nothing else to stuff inside.

Money, you can’t catch that with a net,
You’ve got to have work to get your share;
But it’s all fixed, there ain’t any snow
To shovel away from in front of stairs.

I’d like to buy some nice gifts
For my old woman and the small fry;
I give what I can... And yet it hurts,
Since I’d want to give but lack the whereby.

The starving poor see the displays
And their heart beats inside their chest
To see the fine goodies and lovely jewels—
They too would like a bit of the best.

Watching the stuff, they get all riled
Trying to pick themselves a gem.
And yet, they know that it’s just no use,
Santa Claus won’t be coming to them.

Oh, yes, it’s the same their whole life long!
Whether you’re big or you’re still small;
You’re full of dreams and wild desires,
Only to find you’re headed for a fall.

Having Hope


I don’t possess oratorical skills,
Or wear the St. Louis Cross for a prize,
But I believe in a God who is just
And who will greet us all in Paradise.

Over there, nobody suffers or is reborn,
Over there, each heart is filled with thanks,
It’s like coming from church at Eastertime—
And we eat all we need to still our pangs.

When I get to Heaven, good St. Peter
Will say, “There you are, old sport...
Seeing you’ve always said your prayers,
The Lord will see you in his court.”

The Lord will be there with his mother,
The Holy Virgin, the Angels and Saints,
And he’ll say, “You’re here, dear friend!
At last I’m happy to shake your hand.

“You know, when I was once on earth,
I was in my way, a workingman too.
And I recall those days of dearth,
O I know it’s hard for those like you.

I’m pleased with the kind of life you’ve led;
For a good rest, you’ve earned all you see!
Pack up your tools, for here it’s a feast—
A legal holiday for eternity.

There! Can you hear? Your dear woman sings:
She’s waiting for you on her doorstep.
And I can tell you she’ll be glad—
She was so afraid you might not turn up.

They’re over, all your worries and strikes!
Here you have your own place for keeps.
Here you’ll have everything you ever dreamed,
For here, it’s Sunday all through the week!...”

And that’s where the reward will be
For chaps like me who have nothing now.
For if we didn’t have at least our beliefs
What would be left in our dog’s life to show?

The Regrets


I know well, we love the city
When we’re still young and full of gumption;
It’s so gay when the crowd goes by
With all its hubbub and commotion.

And it’s great when we walk down the street,
Tho’ we ourselves haven’t a penny more,
To see the folks in thick packs
Shoving each other in every store.

It’s great to see so many lights
Shining on the roofs of our flats,
So gay that the miserable poor,
As you’d expect, are driven bats.

There’s so much riches going ‘round
That even though you haven’t a sou,
If you don’t watch yourself quite close
You imagine you’re a rich man too.

Along St. Catherine’s great white way
We walk with our eyes like dinner plates;
The big displays in the window-case
Are ours for a moment, as we wait.

And of course, if we still have our youth,
It seems that it all belongs to us....
Yes, to be young is like being rich;
But we who are old know something worse.

But then, at last, it comes about
That the city lights and the daily round
Just wear you down— and you just bow out,
To dream of rest, if it could be found.

Dreams of the simple village at home
Sleeping in the pine trees’ shade,
And the old church when we were young
With its belfry steeple nicely made.

And the little white house of our youth...
Remember the walls of dusty grey
Under the slanted shingle roof—
The little home of a happier day?

Remember the good old fireplace,
And the great armchair by the fire,
Where, tired to death on the long days,
You’d feel just happy to retire?

Remember all the kindnesses
Of our dear loved ones who’ve passed away?
Remember youth, and the fine zest
Of all the pleasures that are gone?
So that over all the noisy whirl
Of city pleasures of every kind,
We dream of the little village still
That we never should have left behind.

























Summer Evening


The sun is setting at the end of Wolfe street
With the air of casting a final glance
At the earth, where so many are in trouble—
After all, he’s indifferent to our mischance.

And as on other nights, I ramble
Not seeing much, not knowing much.
I have my path, like a soul in pain,
So straight ahead, along I tread.

I go through streets where there are packed
All our hovels of sad, poor trash,
Our streets that stink of frying fat,
And dirty washing, and lack of cash.

This is the quarter of beggars from birth
Who come into the world badly hampered;
Like me, they never had a chance,
And in this life were never pampered.

In the back yards, to left and right,
I notice workmen with families there
That cannot breathe in their narrow homes,
Sitting outside, to be out in the air.

Even the woman, half undressed,
Only a night-dress under her skirt,
And her hair like a broken wicker chair,
Sit bare-bum on the stoop in her shirt.

She hasn’t the urge to tidy up.
She has first the little one to feed,
Then a whole day bending over the tub.
It takes away all desire to be neat.

For her, this is her holiday trip:
To sit in the damp air of a August night
Facing the sheds and backyard gates
And watching the old tom-cats fight.

The husband, with his trousers hung,
Sits bare-footed and bare-skinned.
He smokes his pipe in the quiet dusk,
It’s clear relaxation’s a great thing.

Meanwhile, at the street’s corner
The children play, dirty and snotty;
This slew of kids that swells apace
Is more of the seed of poverty.

With mouth set, the woman and man
Watch, without a word, the sleeping child.
What’s there to say? Each is shut in
Within the silence of a brute mind.
Should they say love-words, and make sweet play?
It’s long since that has gone to the bad.
For all the hopes of their sweet youth
Were just a trap, and they’ve been had.

He’s thinking of tomorrow’s job,
To pay the grocer and the rental clerk;
He’s thinking that he’s getting older,
And how it’s getting harder to work.

Her, she only thinks of the family,
And there the misery has no end;
She’s thinking of the washing and rags,
And she wonders what will become of them

They love each other, but never say it,
And they’ll stay like that to their dying day,
Like two dependable drag horses
Forever harnessed to the same dray.

And on this picture of our real life,
Of the simple joys of the workingman’s dreams,
Between the clotheslines along the lane,
The moon rises, and casts her beams.

Reflections On a Five-Cent Piece


Today, those with nothing but five cents
Are like to say that they’re “flat broke”. 
Myself, I’m not much worth looking at,
Tho’ one time I was a steady bloke.

I was good for a tall glass of beer,
A man well-fed on pork and beans,
A slice of pie, or a good tourtière—
Yes, I had more than my carfare then.

In a tavern now, I no longer pay;
Nobody’d think in a coffee shop
To leave a bit of a handout for me
Without appearing to pose for a shot.

If someone does, he’s lowering himself.
Even the beggars don’t want me around
(I count for less than “Le Devoir”),
And so again I’m losing ground.

Shoots! I’m far from happy now,
Having fallen down to this degree.
But I cheer myself; there’s one thing still
That gives me a kind of secret glee.
Yes! Once a week I get mine back,
As you know each one of you around:
When the curé collects in church on Sunday
Then, my friends, my five cents count. 

























Funeral Oration for My Dog


Nah, you were not a parlor poodle
Like one of the doggies of pretty debs
Who win a first prize at the dog show
And sleep on fine lace-covered beds.

So when I found you, beaten and maimed,
I knew that your miseries without end
Had come with as many kicks and snarls
As snacks... For that much, we were friends.

You had such a mild sweet air
When you laid your little round puss
And then your big paws on my knees,
That one would say you were one of us.

You understood well enough, old fellow,
All my resentments, all my distress,
By just looking at the whites of my eyes
You could feel all my bitterness.

You followed me like a bill-collector,
Like the police, or like a guard.
That’s why I called you Misery—
You never threw a shoe at my head.
And I remember the burial, that time
I drove my woman down the cemetery line:
How the hearse dragged along sadly,
With nobody but you and me behind.

























The Discoverers


In fifteen hundred and thirty-four
According to the almanacs,
Jacques Cartier came in a man-o’-war
To discover this land for us Canucks.

Since then, in France, the homage has been
To send us authors and scribbler in germ,
Who make their little voyages again
Of discovery, each winter term.

Yep! Soon as the frost-bite makes us dance
We know it’s time to get skivered insides
From the songs of all these birds from France
Come to explore us conference-wise.

Mind you, I wouldn’t cast a stone
At some, who are clearly without offence;
Many are fat, but some I’ve known
Are sure polite, and they show good sense.

They say we’re descendants of old France,
From Poitiers, Bretagne, or Normandy—
But I don’t look for the difference
When once I’m a Canayen, me.

You hear of ancient kings and queens,
Or else of Napoléon Premier,
But all these people, for all it means,
Were no way better than Wilfrid Laurier.

And in spite of all their honeyed words,
We know these fellows look down on us.
They see us as some sort of queer birds
They can put on show with their gew-gaws.

They even come here to do research
Into our people and our ways;
Maybe our customs they besmirch—
But our money is good, and so it pays.

Back from their voyages and thrills,
They’ll say to the folks in their home town:
“Canada is full of savages still.”
Well, by heck! I’ve never seen any around!

If they don’t like it here like in france,
And they’ve so many faults to find—
What’d they come for? Holy cats,
We never went looking for their kind!

Me, if I went to the Sorbonne
To give a course, like old Montpetit,
I’d give it to them every one—
I’d get my revenge on them, believe me!
But I’ll shut up. ‘Cause it would be a pity
If I got a bad name as a down-runner,
I’d lose my chance to get some pretty
Decoration, like the Cross of the Legion of Honor!

























Wandering in Parc Lafontaine


This evenin’ I took a stroll
In Parc Lafontaine, going nowheres,
While the sun set, a great big ball,
Behind the chimney of Joe-bert’s.

Here you can dream real pretty
By the lake, the flowers on the lawn,
You’d think you were far way from the city
Where people choke from dawn to dawn.

On summer nights, it’s a bit of shade
In the cool of the evening, some repose
From a day of sweating just to get paid,
The water dripping off of your nose.

You’ll see folks of the “mean” or middle class—it’s
The class you know that has no means—
On any night when the Lord permits,
Arriving from the streets in streams.

Here they come, the fathers and sons, 
The lovers, and the little tots,
Along the alleyways of maple clumps
That wind around the watercourse.
They’re looking for a little green, 
A bit of air, and summer, after sun,
To forget awhile how life is mean—
A bit of music, and a bit of fun.

The young, the old, the poor, the rich,
All of them stroll to their heart’s content.
There are even some who snivel and twitch
On the bench where they’ve come to sit, all spent.

Under the willows, beside a boulder,
There’s a couple by the water, on a seat;
The girl nests her head on his shoulder,
While the boy’s mind is going tweet-tweet.

And in the shade of hawthorne and pines,
Other lovers have made their sweet tryst;
It’s clear enough what’s on their minds—
It’s those promises of everlasting bliss.

But if they knew they’d be amazed,
That eternal love, like it or don’t,
Is often just like a permanent wave—
You’re lucky if it lasts a month.

For a while, life’s a happy caper,
They chat together and nibble their fries—
Some patates frites out of waxed paper—
While gazing into each other’s eyes.
Three little words, and some chips to lick!
There’s happiness for you—ecstasy!
Ah, sweet youth, how it passes quick,
And no more fun when it’s passed away!

Pushing prams, others pass by me, 
They’re the couples, married, from last year,
Wearing still their wedding finery;
And now there’s a little one to bear...

Over there, there’s folks walking by
The monument of Dollard des Ormeaux;
This is our city, for which he died,
Now they’re fighting for dollars—all for dough.

I walk on the bridge, built quaint and thin,
With concrete branches to endure;
The band in the old bandstand begins
The “Poet and Peasant” overture.

Ah, music, what a mystery’s there!
It speaks to us as clear as words,
And makes a pleasure of our cares,
So soft, you’re in tears afterwards.

Others head for the park zoo
(A chicken, a cock, three pheasant hens);
It’s specially the monkeys they go to view,
Rocking and swinging in their pens.
It seems that scientist’ve tried to claim
That man is an ape on a higher rung,
But maybe monkeys think the same—
Man is a monkey turned out wrong.





































































































Later poems

Prosperity


Most of the beggars are now in clover,
And they’re all spending beyond belief.
O yes, they’re all enjoying comfort,
Done with poverty and public relief.

Their eyes are bigger than their belly,
They’ll even leave out some necessities
To buy small luxuries and pleasantries:
I tell you, this is prosperity!

Goodbye to banquets of baked beans
And meals of mustard on dry bread,
As it was before the Forties came;
Now it’s steak... with Scotch instead!

What, they should plan when they are rich,
Save, so that something for bad times remains?
Do you take them for a miserly lot
Or a band of holy Seraphic saints?

C’mon, let’s go! Full steam ahead!
They spend the cash with all their might.
Boys, what’s the good of earning more
If we don’t squander it left and right?

You waste, enjoy, you lay about,
You fidget and you fuss around.
It costs quite a penny week by week,
And then it’s payments “on account”.

You’ll tell me that they’ve lost their head,
That they’re behaving like they’re nuts?
They spend too much and go into debt—
They do just like the government does.

The government spends like all the rest;
It doesn’t save a bleeding sou.
The money they take will dance a round,
But they waste it just like any fool.

For our government men have genius in full,
They talk through their hat nor run out of steam:
Especially at the United Nations
While our money flows out in a stream.

They need a flock of secretaries,
Of under-secretaries and other clerks,
To twiddle their thumbs and do nothing at all,
Or to gad about on special perks.

Our delegates have a certain zest
To study abroad and improve the soul
By taking courses... The Place Pigalle
And all the dives of Paris they know.
This is the time of the seven fat cows,
But when the lean ones come with their grief,
All these people will ask mercy again
At the employment bureau, or beg for relief.


























The Skiers


To think that some people have the guts
To go up north in the winter cold
And to freeze themselves in icy hail!
I’m happy at home in my blankets rolled.

It’s bad enough that I find it tough
Just staying up on my two feet
And walking on the bleeding earth,
Without getting crippled on skis beneath.

These skier must be a little tetched
To go up north in close-packed trains
To get themselves a pleurisy
Or broken bones for all their pains.

They go off stalking on two sticks
With a great air of sporting strain,
Then set off with a desperate push
As if they wanted to die in pain.

These skiers walk about in shorts,
Some of them look like spindleshanks,
While others are so overweight
They’re only fit for jokes and pranks.

O yes, some have a heavy build,
Enough to wonder if it’s okay
Or if they might crash the whole ski-lift
By trying to board it some fine day.

Many skiers go single-file
And stay outside despite the breeze,
While others play the “Coy-Young-Maid”
And sit in the chalet, warm as you please.

The young are taking a break from the city,
Saying they just come out just to ski,
But there are some here who are less able
To handle the skis than a glass of whiskey.

The real skiers, they’re only a few;
The others keep warm in the hotels.
And there, as my friend Valdombre would say,
Is another of those Tales from the Hills.

Bilingualism


Bilingualism! What a boon!
Now on the radio you can tune
Soap operas by double lots
And twice as many idiots!






















Modern Music


This Rock & Roll, I do surmise,
Is nothing but noise organized.
But one effect you can’t deplore—
It makes you love sweet silence more.






















Another Prayer


You won’t have a cent left when you die,
The doctors will take care of that.
So just for your widow, put something by—
And pray the Lord for sudden death.






















Warning


To save the writer from visions rife
While leading the life of make & spend,
I’d place at the start of “the literary life”
A sign of clear warning: DEAD END.






















Living and Writing


In youth, we would only live to write,
And scribbled without a thought to spare.
Those were the days, the weather was right;
But to write to live—it’s a hell to compare!






















Our City Buses


To my mind, it didn’t make no sense
To fill our streets with bus exhaust
‘Stead of the old streetcars for 8 cents,
Since we can’t even scrape up even that.

These fine new gasoline guzzlers
Are nothing but motorized hacks or
A kind of super sardine boxes,
As comfortable as old farm tractors.

We get in somehow, single-file,
Through a small door big as your hand;
You’ve simply got to pile in,
For thirty seats we’re eighty-to-a-man.

And the guys who don’t mind it at all
Are the aldermen in their comfy place,
Who roll along in their limousines,
Paid, I guess, with wine by the case.

They’re not the ones who have to sweat,
Taking the “public transport” home,
To wait their turn in double lines
In the street, in the wet, and cold to the bone.

As for us, old boy, all we can do
Is to pile together into the bus,
Which takes us, not where we want to go,
But always right to the Terminus.

After all, we’re only taxpayers,
Poor imbeciles who have to pay;
We’re electors and contributors—
You’d waste your time to rail anyway.

You could say the S.P.C.A.
Has more consideration by far
For all the hogs and heifers in freight 
That are carried by the C.P.R.

Don’t Blame It On the Teachers


I never went to a classical college,
I only went to a regular school;
And that explains why, as for knowledge,
I pass for ignorant as a rule.

In that great school called experience,
I got my papers, with a kick in the rear,
Where plain instruction and plainer sense
Knocked in that way don’t make you queer.

As a result, when I hear growls
Against our universities,
Our colleges, and our public schools,
I can’t butt in—that’s above me.

But anyhow, before laying the blame
On the teachers, brothers, or the nuns,
Let’s ask ourselves, all the same, 
What kind of learners we foist on them.

Think at least, before casting a stone,
Of those who are giving all their sweat
Working for any piddling sum—
To teach, in spite of what they get.
Since, if the children we send to learn
Are frankly hopeless duds and ninnies,
You can’t expect the teachers to churn
out Louis-Joseph Papineau’s in a minute.

When a good hen hatches out a goose
—Even the best in the hen-house laid—
It’s no use blaming her, or letting loose,
Since it was your goose, I am afraid!




















Our Little Mothers


When I think of all the mothers at home
With a heap of kids around the place,
Who must wash the diapers and clean the rags—
They live the life of an outcast race.

For while the hubby is out on the job
The little mother must sweat in a hole.
Not for her any trips abroad,
Not for her any fine mink stole.

When the union chiefs set up a strike—
Apart from that they do nothing straight—
For the little mother it’s hardly a dream!
She’s the one who must bear the extra weight.

Who’s the one who makes the money last
To get the food and clothe the tots?
Who is it that manages to still get by
When the husband’s paycheck suddenly stops?

Who figures it out, who runs the till,
So that somehow all the bills are paid,
So that the husband doesn’t lose all hope
For being so poor, and working like a slave?

And when one of them gets sick,
Whether it’s the baby or the man,
Who is the one that goes into fits
Until she gets him on the mend?

It’s the little mother, always it’s her...
She may have nothing for herself to spare,
But her little girls will wear pretty lace
And her darling boys have a dashing air.

For Pa has his week or forty hours,
And his holidays, and time-and-a-half,
But the little mother, until she dies,
She will not rest, that not for the staff.

In fact, she never thinks of going on strike
Or to insist that her salary grows:
Her salary’s zero!... And when she croaks
That’ll be her first chance of repose.

So let’s think of our little mother!
(I say this for you as well as for me.)
Unless you’re absolutely heartless, poor misery—
You’ll have to get down to her on your knees.

Let’s Vote

There are countries still under slavery
Where there’s not a dissenting vote,
But here it ‘s our daily privilege
To say what we like, and we have the vote. 

And since we can say what we think
Without getting pinched or caught,
I’m asking myself, why not, me boys,
Make sure of the good we’ve got. 

For it’s no use bashing away
At the P.M.’s and the M.P.’s
In all the taverns and shops;
So less babbling, and more voting, please.

It’s not by swilling Scotch by the glass
That our M.P.’s will do as they ought.
What if we gave them a little scare
To throw them all out as a lot.

Let’s take care of our business, then!
It’s elections, boys, the voters’ lists hang.
If the government sits down on the job
We vote them all out with a bang.

But first, boys, let’s do it clean:
We won’t sell our vote for favours or pounds,
Or a contract, or a comfy spot, or prayers.
Let’s not vote for—a pack of clowns.

It don’t even make no difference
Whether you’re “blue,” or “red,”, or square.
The one thing that matters really,
Is whether we get good men in there.

And since we’re not living in Russia the Great—
The earthly paradise of Tim Buck—
Let’s take care of our democracy.
C’mon, boys! Let’s go vote in a block!

















I’m Still a Bum


In my salad days I dreamed of wealth;
It’s a long time since I got the facts.
I haven’t a cent, so I don’t give a fig
For the gentlemen at the Income Tax.

Nah, I don’t strain my back! Since I know
That even if I worked to break my neck
I’d still have the devil on my tail,
And I’d find myself in a hole just as quick.

All that I’d have would be nice ulcers,
Or a case of cramps and indigestion,
And I’d finish in the public ward
As a fit subject for vivisection.

There, I’d be given the latest pills
That the drug companies love to try
On poor buggers in charity wards,
‘cause if they die—too bad, they didn’t pay.

With work, that’s all you ever get:
The more you work the less you sleep;
And the more you scuttle and get out of breath
The sooner the undertaker gets you for keeps.

So I let the others dream of wealth;
I take from life what good may come.
Let those who choose to work get fat,
I’m fine as I am—I’m still a bum.