Oh, I found it right away. . . ."
Then I ran to her with a shout of joy, but I choked with a wild dismay.
I clutched the back of the golden throne, and the room began to reel . . .
What she held to me was, ah yes! a flea, but . . . ~it wasn't my Lucille~.




After all, I did not celebrate. I sat on the terrace of the Cafe Napolitain
on the Grand Boulevard, half hypnotized by the passing crowd.
And as I sat I fell into conversation with a god-like stranger
who sipped some golden ambrosia. He told me he was an actor
and introduced me to his beverage, which he called a "Suze-Anni".
He soon left me, but the effect of the golden liquid remained,
and there came over me a desire to write. ~C'e/tait plus fort que moi.~
So instead of going to the Folies Berge\re I spent all evening
in the Omnium Bar near the Bourse, and wrote the following:




On the Boulevard



Oh, it's pleasant sitting here,
Seeing all the people pass;
You beside your ~bock~ of beer,
I behind my ~demi-tasse~.
Chatting of no matter what.