Ballade in Favor of Those Called Decadents and Symbolists

In all this Paris some few,

We live on pride not costly.

Smitten though we are with booze

Fresh water’s what we like to drink mostly

While breaking our crust a bit toasty.

Let the others eat well and have wine,

And beauty that is never beastly!

We are writers superfine.

Phoebe, when cats turn gray-blue,

Streamlines with a horn’s-end harshly

Our bodies fed on glory’s stew,

Hell drools over, watching largely,

And Phoebus shoots arrows at us archly.

At night we’re cradled by dreams lying

In beds of peach-pits made unposhly.

We are writers superfine.

Many a wit has taken to

The signboard of the Delver hotly

And Lemerre covers each bet on cue,

More than one still makes haste hardily

And tries to enter the breach untardily,

But Vanier at the end of the line

Is the only one who fishes properly.

We are writers superfine.

Envoy

Even though our purse goes mothly,

Princes, we laugh, sweet and divine.

Whatever they say or preach ungodly,

We are writers superfine.

Paul Verlaine