LE BRUIT DES CABARETS, LA FANGE DES TROTTOIRS
Les platanes dechus s'effeuillant dans l'air noir,
L'omnibus, ouragan de ferraille et de boues,
Qui grince, mal assis entre ses quatre roues,
Et roule ses yeux verts et rouges lentement,
Les ouvriers allant au club, tout en fumant
Leur brule-gueule au nez des agents de police,
Toits qui degouttent, murs suintants, pave qui glisse,
Bitume defonce, ruisseaux comblant l'egout,
Voila ma route -- avec le paradis au bout.
The buzz, a drinking mob, and sidewalks full with muck,
Denuded sycamores crossed like a queer sawbuck,
A jalopy, the bus, a heap of rotting steel
Is grimacing, about to lose a wobbly wheel,
Her lights, like crazy eyes of red and greenish tints…
The workers stream to bars, and light with worn-out flints
Their smoking pipes, to fume their stink at weary cops.
The roof and banks that drip with rain, which never stops,
Torn asphalt, gutters swelled, with rancid, putrid scent -
Yes, this shall be my route, my Eden at its end.