Life, my friend, is a busy motorway
and I would much prefer
to spend it in a boulevard cafe in Montmartre
drinking vin ordinaire and discussing Sartre.
Speed, mon ami, is the curse
and it drives me to despair.
Ennui is ten times worse
but c’est la vie and I don’t care.
And when I die, as die I must,
chassis broken, windscreen shattered,
tow me to an existential scrapyard.
And before my rust is scattered,
take for the scrapbook one final photo.
One for the road, for je est un auto.