we do surely trust desire,
forced to walk this cold old road
forgetting how the heart will tire
of gravel offered a la mode
that French fashion found its place
in cavities and old boutiques,
leaving hearts without a trace
of sympathy for flushed pink cheeks
sticky with vanilla cream,
brain freeze eyes that flow with tears,
red meat soles that ooze and gleam
raw from pebbles, hopes and fears,
mercy cannot live for those
that French fashion comes and goes
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