In the Parisian 20s, my mind lives
In the hellfire my body persists
Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and Stein I listen to,
My body feels the fury-the arrival of the flu.
Just off the banks of the Seine, I walk
In heated fever, I’ve lost the will to talk.
Fitzgerald tells me of Nick’s character-
through a mushroom cloud of French-blue smoke.
My end is near, hammered to the cross-
Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and Stein wave goodbye, expressing sorrow for my loss.