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I Want To Love You

I want to love you but how
Can I love you if I don’t see you?
I want to love you chaste or nearly so
Like priests who don’t marry
Cloistered nuns saving themselves
For a good old God who’s hiding
I want to love you, of course I dream of it
But how do you expect it to work?
 
I want to laugh off the proverb
Which says out of sight, out of mind
To say it’s wrong, it’s harsh
That it’s just meant to scare us
I want to go to sleep every night
Cuddling up to no one
With your body in my memory
As a granny mourns her man
 
I want to love you until I believe
In the potential advantages
Of mixing both our stories
In an everlasting rerun
I want to see off all these dangers
Which won’t play to our advantage
And then win the chance to see you
Two short days or two short hours
 
I want to love you
But how can I love you
If I’m not there?
To wrap you in my care
And comfort you when things go wrong, yes, (if things go wrong)
I want to love you from afar
My heart full up with your great emptiness
To cherish you with love and pain
To love you for nothing, tears in my eyes
 
I want to love you, but to be honest
I can’t hold solid if I don’t see you
I’m like a blind person without a white stick
Or guide dog, and without your arm
To cross this street
They call the ocean
To cross, but to get to you
There’s no rainbow big enough
 
I want to love you, of course
In any case, do I have a choice?
I’m trapped, I’m lost
Turning in on myself, I love you already
Even if I feel I’m wearing myself out
Seeking you with outstretched arms
In this terrifying maze
Too complicated and too twisting
 
I’m going to love you, even if all this
Leads nowhere, is impossible
And I’ll believe in it like others believe
In the Baby Jesus and the Bible
I don’t know yet how
I’m going to love you if I don’t see you
But I’m going to love you, that’s a promise
Do you hear what I’m telling you now?
 
I’m going to love you…
I’m going to love you…
 

The Damned French

Versions: #3
They speak with precise words
They pronounce all of their syllables
They always give each other kisses
They spend forever at each meal
 
They have incomprehensible menus
They drink water as if it were wine
They eat bread and then fois gras
And they find a way to not get fat
 
They protest every fifteen minutes
On every damned street corner
All of the taxis have drivers
That drive like madmen, bumper to bumper
 
And when they come to our country
It's for the winter and the Indians
And long walks on snowmobiles
Or on dog sleds
 
They have miniscule cups
and immense ashtrays
They make 'real' coffee for 'adults'
And they down it in two gulps
 
You find they great big German Shepards
And their little poodles
On the floor of the restaurants,
The grocery stores, the pharmacies
 
They say they dine when they have supper
And it's two o'clock when they have breakfast (this is a reference to a difference in dialect - in France 'dejuner' means lunch. In Quebec, it means breakfast).
In the morning, they eat yogurt -
They don't know eggs and bacon
 
At the end of the night, it's more saurkraut,
Duck breast, or escargots (snails)
Everything happens exactly to their taste
In the preparations of their damned veal's head
 
A bit of eyelid, a bit of gum (as in your mouth),
A bit of ear, a bit of lips
For the Quebequois' taste buds, it's a bit much
 
Then, they take us for martian
When we ask for a glass of milk,
Or when we ask, 'Where is the 'salle de bain', if you please'
(Here there is another play on regional dialects, in France, bathrooms are 'toilettes' and 'salle de bains' are literally 'rooms where you bathe)
 
And when they come to Quebec,
They put on a Toque (type of hat) and a Kanuk (type of coat)
And they start by searching for igloos
And finish in a sugar shack (reference to the maple syrup)
 
They quickly fall in love
With our forests and our lakes
And they start talking like us
After saying tabernacle (a type of dwelling)
 
And drunk on caribou
And on Molson (beer) and on much gin
They rave about our stews,
Our pork's feet (as in pickled), and our beans
 
They see that we don't have stinky cheese
And they get used to an old cheddar
And they stop complaining
About our bastard coffee (referencing that French coffee is much stronger)
 
When their stay is finally over,
They understand that they don't have the right
To call us Canadians
Because we are Quebecois (They are Quebecois first, then Canadiens)
 
They say goodbye with tears in their eyes
And maple syrup in their bags
They realize that we are like them
And we wish them safe travels
 
We give them a kiss goodbye
As if we'd always done so
And there is a missing piece of Quebec,
When the damned French leave.