In Paris with You

Been flipping through a borrowed anthology of poetry recently. 

Since I have not written anything recently, I hope this will suffice.

;-)

Here's something rather romantic and ironic I came across today:

In Paris with You

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two. I'm one of your talking wounded. I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded. But I'm in Paris with you. Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled And resentful at the mess I've been through. I admit I'm on the rebound And I don't care where are we bound. I'm in Paris with you. Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,  If we skip the Champs Elysées And remain here in this sleazy Old hotel room Doing this and that To what and whom Learning who you are,  Learning what I am. Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,  The little bit of Paris in our view. There's that crack across the ceiling And the hotel walls are peeling And I'm in Paris with you. Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris. I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do. I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,  I'm in Paris with... all points south. Am I embarrassing you?  I'm in Paris with you.  - James Fenton