Sorbonne my Asshole, Asshole.

This is about a couple faggots and a basketball
riding in au coeur de la ville, riding in L'arrière de la bouche
with lime green nail polish stuck
around the jaw of Julian the Apostate
screaming TOUCH IT TOUCH IT TOUCH IT.
This is about Bedelia L'énorme
and how many days it took her to hoover the Seine
This is about her fat pair of thighs
squeezing the breath out of votre vie by
rubbing out the bad dreams
while you played chopsticks on your brother's piano.
This is all about your boring brown eyes
the first time you. The first time, me, nibbling on
a stranger's knee
this is about how you threw your back out screaming
TOUCH IT TOUCH IT TOUCH IT TOUCH IT
through the rusty screen of your open window
that lined your shoebox
above the Champs-Élysées.

I told you a lie with the crack of my lifeline
stuck over your mouth
about a pack of matches and the dead guinguettes,
dancing to the shaking of your Percocet maracas
with your ringless finger stuck into
votre oeil gauche making me scream
TOUCH IT TOUCH IT TOUCH IT
while we waited patiently
to become quelqu'un beau,
quelqu'un forte--
but we're just
a couple faggots with a basketball.