O, Bastille Day!

Everybody loves France. So – oh, no? That’s not a thing? Well they should. Their tendency to surrender is exaggerated, their cheese, whilst smelling like the olfactory equivalent of the Westboro Baptists Church, is known to be delicious for some reason, and they discovered radium, without which I wouldn’t be able to find my glow in the dark mouth guard when the combination of my saliva and grinding teeth inevitably shoots it across my bed like so many bars of prison soap. I’m sorry, I’m not doing a very good job of celebrating France. I must, as I often do, turn to poetry to communicate my deeply felt, depthy feelings about France to you all.

poetry

 

 

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