Have A Crêpe

Gare Montparnasse. 

Arthur and Pierre-Louis get off the train with their bikes and the lunch box.

Now where? says Pierre-Louis.

Airport, says Arthur.

Shouldn't we dispose of the rana? asks Pierre-Louis.

Okay, says Arthur.

He opens the lunch box.

Not here! says Pierre-Louis. Let's at least find some grass.

Are we in Paris? asks the rana.

Yes, says Pierre-Louis. The end of the line for you. What were you planning to do here?

Have a crêpe, says the rana.

Nice of you to wait, says Pierre-Louis.

Let's all have a crêpe, says Quiet-tartus. Where's the nearest crêperie?

Oh, a crêpe! says Pierre-Louis. Do we have time? 

Sure, says Arthur. Flight leaves at midnight.

They wheel their bikes along a few streets to the Crêperie Bretonne.

And find a table outside.

A waiter approaches.

Attention messieurs! It is forbidden to eat your own food at this crêperie.

What? says Pierre-Louis. We have no intention!

Then what is in this lunch box? asks the waiter.

These are our frogs, says Pierre-Louis. As you see, they are not edible. And they wish, like any customer, to order a crêpe.

We do not have a small size of plate that would be suitable, says the waiter.

Oh, come on! says Pierre-Louis. They have their own paper. 

He pulls at the edge of the paper.

The triangles and parallelograms extend like a concertina.

Oi! says Quiet-tartus. Watch out!

We cannot serve a crêpe on a used piece of paper, says the waiter. What are these squiggles?

Never mind, says Pierre-Louis. Arthur and I will share our crêpes with the frogs. 

Is it a poem? asks the wailter, looking at one of the parallelograms more closely.

Yes, says Arthur. A waiter in Jullouville wrote it. It's not a bad poem.

May I unfold it and read it? asks the waiter.

We would prefer you to take our order, says Pierre-Louis. We have a plane to catch at midnight.

Bien sur, says the waiter. What would you like?

A galette ratatouille says Arthur. 

A crêpe verte, says Pierre-Louis. It should please the frogs. And a large jug of cider.

The waiter goes off, and returns twenty minutes later with the order, 

Arthur sees something sticking out from beneath his galette.

It's a  poem that the waiter has dashed off in the kitchen.