I Used To Live In Narbonne, You Know

I used to live in old Narbonne, where the sailors brood
About lost ships, cracked lips, sprained hips and turbulent trips

To far-flung, fatuous, foreign fields.  Who’d

Begrudge them their cantankerous moans?  Here’s one who                 grips

My arm as if to say, “Monsieur?”  In his eyes

I see a troubled land in which great Chaos lies

And I am afraid.  Yes – afraid!

I wish I could say I made

My excuses and left, like that News Of The World reporter,

But there was something about him, a sort of rheumy water

Welling in his retina,

Like a poisoned puddle set in a

Vitreous void.

A friend from the West Country warned me: “Oi’d

“Be careful, Sam, he’s mad as an ’orse!”

But the old salt held on to me, with maritime force.

“Monsieur?” he croaked.  “Yes?” I said shortly.

In the past I’d have sent fellows of his sort lee-

Wards, to swim or sink on the ocean spray;

But I decided to hear what he wanted to say.

“Êtes-vous de Manhattan?” he ventured at last.

“Yes,” I replied, suddenly aghast

With a fear that rippled through my entire body

(Do you remember that time in the Lamb & Flag, Roddy?)

Wondering how the devil he knew, for I’d affected a style

Designed to baffle, bemuse and beguile

Those trying to guess my city of origin:

My mouth oped so wide you could have put a pint of porridge              in!

“Vous connaissez TriBeCa, par aucune chance?”

Well I did, actually – it’s where I used to dance

For a couple of dollars and a plate of soup

With The Bandana Boys, a colorful troupe

Of crackheads and drunkards and ruffians and rogues,

All togged up in pantaloons and brogues –

But that was before I got far too fat –

Though I wasn’t going to tell this old sailor that!

“Oui,” I confessed.  And we shared a piratical grin,

Like brothers in arms or soldiers in sin.

     It turned out he’d lived there when he was young and spry

     But he now lives in Narbonne – and so do I.