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Shall I sing you a tale of great derring-do
When pickpockets three I did bravely subdue?
(Well, maybe “subdue” is a word too extreme,
But hear out the story; you’ll see what I mean!)
I was living abroad when, wholly by chance,
My brother’s glee club was on tour in France.
I packed up my things, met Father and Mum,
And drove to the north to have us some fun.
At Omaha Beach, where so many fell,
The glee club boys sang of faith and farewell.
Then onward through Caen and Sainte-Mère-Église
In weather so scorching, we prayed for a breeze.
And, then, off to Paris! La ville des lumières!
The Louvre, Eiffel Tower, and ladies so fair!
Since I knew the town, I worked with pride
Playing the role of translator and guide.
On our final evening, my brother asked me:
“Hey sis, since it’s now our last night in Pariee,
The guys want to go see the famed Eiffel Tower –
I know there’s a light show there, once every hour.”
“Of course,” said I, and I tried to explain
How you first take the metro, and then take the train.
But Paris directions are hard to impart –
We all ended up down at métro Montmarte.
Glee clubbers (twelve) and Mom, Dad, and I
Stood at the guichet and attempted to buy
Tickets for all. (And may I just mention –
The clubbers were loud, and not paying attention?)
We got to the platform with moments to spare.
I herded them on with the greatest of care
Then, counting, looked back – I just had to check
And make certain that all of our “hands” were “on deck.”
And –
There! So fast, I could not even clock it!
There! A man, with his hand in Dad’s pocket!
For a moment, I froze. I stared in dismay.
Then I pointed to him and I shouted out, “HEY!”
The pickpocket stared. My mother turned ‘round.
Another man suddenly dropped to the ground
And grabbed my dad’s leg! And then, in the fray,
A third man pushed Mother and thrust her away!
My fury blazed up. The outrage! The scandal!
How dare these pickpockets my parents manhandle!
As Mother leapt forward to rescue my dad,
I launched myself towards the thieves like one gone mad.
I started to yell at the first robber fella,
And hit the second with my trusty umbrella.
I tussled with them for what seemed like an age:
They, with surprise, and me, in blind rage.
The third man shrank back. The second, I hit.
I brandished my ‘brella and at them I spit:
“Va t’en faire foudre!” They jerked back in shock.
Then the doors thudded shut and we quitted the dock.
A stillness descended. I looked at the boys.
Standing there, gaping, not making a noise.
The hero that day? I guess it was me.
And everyone learned: never mess with Abby.
A few translations of vocabulary and terminology used in this epic poem:
Sainte-Mère-Église – known as the “first city liberated” during the invasion of Normandy.
La ville des lumières – the city of lights
Métro Montmartre – the name I gave to the metro stop right outside the boys’ hotel, which was located in the red-light Montmartre district (actual name of the stop: Pigalle)
Guichet – ticket booth
Va t’en faire foudre – the most obscene expression you can say in French
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