I love the French — the bastards…

I love the French— the bastards,
I love the French— the swine,
It galls me to admit it,
But how I love their wine...

Their cheeses and their clarets,
The muddle of Franglais,
Their weird belief that Elvis
Was Johnny ’Allyday...

Their love of regulations,
Which all are then ignored,
The strikes they call on ferries
When everyone’s aboard...

Their grandiose delusion
That what is French is right,
Their rascal politicians
Who rob them day and night...

Their summer-long vacations,
Their bloody-minded cheek,
Their loathing of the English,
Their little fi ts of pique...

The worship of their bellies,
Their shrugs and savoire-faire —
I’d move to France tomorrow
If only they weren’t there...

I love Provençe in autumn,
And spring in gay Paris,
I love the French— the bastards,
But they  do not — love me!