"merde, merde, merde..."

with her earrings and her cat eyes,
she smiled with an Oriental purr.
Marie Laurencin watched his collar stud
tickling her soft fur.
she leaned beside his well-dressed bed.
he rested while moving fitfully,
very much in love,
poetry filling the air.
his name was Guillaume Apollinaire:
he died of a broken heart and a war wound.
she had all his letters buried
with her in her tomb:
"merde, merde, merde..."