Ex-soldiers on pier of arches.
Blindfolded with white flags,
Angelic garcons waiting around just to surrender.
And at the first sign of danger, they throw themselves into frigid water.
Passersby walk down this promenade that jetties into the bay,
Ignoring underarms and French breadth, these strangers pick the patriots they find lovely,
Leave a dance card with the executioner, and lead their new love to the mainland.
As she takes off that wilted halo, his face comes close to hers,
and she whispers in his ear,
‘Will you cohabitate with me?’
and oh god is it romantic.
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