State of Siege?

The poor postilion, under his canopy of tin,

Warming a chilblain his enormous glove within,

Follows after his heavy bus upon the left bank,

And pushes aside the moneybag from his flaming flank.

And, whileas, gentle shade where policemen are,

Looking skyward is the honest interior

To the moon up there rocking in green cotton wool,

Despite the edict and the hour that’s delicate still,

And again the omnibus reaches the Odeon, foul

The debauchee in the darkened crossroads gives a howl!

Arthur Rimbaud