Violence Of Flowers

Here, says Arthur. Two doggy bags.

This one's got writing, says Terence.

Let me see it, says Belle. Hey, it's a poem!

The waiter wrote it, says Arthur. He thinks he's a poet.

If he thinks he's a poet, he is, says Saint Méen.

Read it out! says Saint Maclou. I do like a bit of poetry.

You read it out, says Arthur. And I'll start filling the other one.

He picks up a greasy cold moule.

Wait! says Belle.  Before you put it in the bag, wipe the sauce off with a tissue.

Yes do, says Roo-kai That sauce is too spicy.

As if I would have a tissue, says Arthur.

He wipes the moule on his shorts.

Read! says Terence.

Saint Méen reads the poem:

Dans une vallée crevassée, depouillée d'arbres/ Les rochers dorment comme des lézards

What does that mean? asks Terence.

In a cracked open valley, stripped of trees / Rocks sleep like lizards, says Arthur.

That's a good one! says Terence.

It's not finished, says Saint Méen:

La violence jaune des fleurs/ Les yeux brisés

Crikey! says Belle. That sounds like you, Arthur.

It's not me, says Arthur, wiping a second  moule on his shorts, the other leg this time.

What? asks Terence. 

Yellow violence of flowers, the eyes broken, says Arthur.

Flowers don't have eyes! says Terence. That's stupid.

I imagine there's more, says Jeanne Jugan. Go on Méen.

Où saint Michel s'est déversée/ furieux contre le diable/ et le fendit en deux, reads Saint Méen.

How exciting! says Jeanne Jugan. A battle!

Who's winning? asks Terence. Wait! Who's fighting?

Saint Michael and the devil, says Jeanne Jugan. This poem is based on a true story.

Why is this der-brain poem in French? asks Terence. Tell me properly.

Where Saint Michael pours down his fury on the devil, and splits him in two, says Jeanne Jugan.

Yay! says Terence. Saint Michael is the winner!

Not quite, says Saint Méen. This is the last line: Le voila pas encore mort sur le sable.

There he lies, not yet dead, on the sand, says Belle. 

Who? asks Terence.

The devil, says Arthur. Okay this bag is full, give me that one.

It doesn't seem right to fill it with leftover moules, says Roo-kai. The poem does not deserve it.

Your choice, says Arthur. What shall we do with it?

It would be perfect to carry the frogs in, says Roo-kai. 

Everyone, except Arthur, agrees that it would be perfect