Chance and Good Fortune
I take myself to the street, when Nature’s beautiful,
To the passer-by, who with her conquering air,
Would extract, with the tip of her parasol,
A glance from my eye, or lay my poor heart bare.
I think myself content – not too much! – but one must live:
To stave off hunger a bit, the beggar drinks like a sieve...
One fine day – what a business! – there I passed,
In my cruising – Business!... – She came by at last
– She, who? – the Passer-by! She, with the parasol!
A proper butcher’s-lad, against her I tried to loll...
Brushed her...She viewed me softly, smiled loftily too,
And...held out her hand, and...handed me a sou!
Rue des Martyrs.