Paris by Day

Look at the great red copper disk above,
glowing where God heats up in his casserole
manna, scraps, the eternal daily dole:
it's simmering in sweat and peppered with love.

In the vague sizzle of rancid meat that burns,
the scullions squat in a circle round the oven.
The drunks are there, too, holding out their fagons;
a poor wretch has the shakes as he waits his turn.

You think it's for all and sundry the sun fries
those seething gobs ot tat in golden grease?
No, on us drips dog-soup trom the skies.

Some have sunshine; we live under the eaves.
For us the kettle that's black, no longer hot.
Bah! I'd as lief have that as the honey-pot!