TO THE FRANCOPHILE
You speak to me often of the fabulousness of French culture,
Come. Let's begin with Mickey Mouse.
the wine, the cheese, the beouf bourgignon, and I ask you
what of Estonia? Taliin with its breathtaking medieval architecture,
the sumptuous rye bread, the yogurt soups, the pork and potatoes...
it all sounds so magnificent to me.
Oh, yes I know, the Champs-Élysées, and, further south,
the inviting beaches, they beckon you. But what of the Ozarks,
the badgers and beavers, the big noisy woodpeckers?
Have you no love for Arkansas? How about a good barbecue,
small talk with the locals, or, perhaps, square dancing?
I like wine, yes. I'm not one of those beer snobs
who can't stomach the subject of wine.
The Spaniards make fine, full-blooded reds, and don't neglect
the remarkable vineyards of Washington and Oregon,
or those steely whites from the German southwest.
Your summer vacation to France was one to remember,
I am sure of that. But I ask you, would you like to see
three hundred and fifty pictures of my recent trip to Florida?
I will show you them one by one, and watch as your eyes
begin to weep the bitter tears of entrapment.
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