Deep-seated was the need for me back then <br />to see and touch the actual fabric of this land. <br />We still were boys equipped with calluses like men, <br />enthralled by pheromones and one expanding gland. <br /> <br />They sent the happy ones from school to Vietnam <br />to chase the evil through the jungles straight to hell. <br />And pledged allegiance to the flag and Uncle Sam <br />still quite convinced that liberté was just a bell. <br /> <br />I joined the cowards then and left the Mother Lode, <br />smoked Gauloise and drank Pernod at Moulin Rouge. <br />But when I stumbled down the Latin Quarter road <br />there first was thunder then a terrible deluge. <br /> <br />A legionnaire stood on a box and preached his stuff <br />about the end of man's existence and his dreams. <br />He said that things were only slowly getting tough, <br />but that society was bursting at the seams. <br /> <br />I pointed quickly to the avenue of gravel <br />where smaller vehicles could surely disappear. <br />And saw the fabric of our promised land unravel <br />the legionnaire just stood and nodded. Yes, I hear.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/le-suicide-de-mon-pays/
