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Another tile falls,
but he shrugs, and kicks it aside.
He goes out
and strolls down the Paris streets;
No coins dance in his pockets
as he runs suddenly after a boy--
"Oh, urchin, I implore you:
how do you do it?"
The ghost replies, "I am dead,
and so I am done with it. You quickly forget, m'sieur."
Only then did he see
his hand pass through,
And The Eagle Remembered '32.
To the café he goes,
but for no food and drink.
He sits, and waits
for his fellows to shuffle in.
A bottle he sees
appear at his table unannounced.
"Tell me, kind sir,
where is your owner?" asks he,
but the bottle
refused to reply in his turn.
"Oh, mon ami!" he cries.
"Grand R! It is not for you!"
And The Eagle Remembered '32.
So off he goes
to a seamstress's shop.
He pokes about,
looking for the old, red cloth.
Finding none,
he turns to her in anger.
"What diservice
you do me, woman!
Wench! Where
have you hidden the crimson!"
She replies,
"There is no blood-colored cloth here for you!"
And The Eagle Remembered '32.
The graveyard is next.
Men sit on graves, drinking or chatting.
One
refuses every bottle.
Another
preaches to the rest.
A third
speaks of love and poetry.
And one more
has a girl on each knee.
He sees the spirits and shouts,
"It cannot be true!"
And The Eagle Cried Over '32.
by Lisa
©2001