i was already avant garde
during the belle epoque
and art nouveau
was for me deja vu
i was a bon vivant
sometimes risqué
that i was bourgeois and passé,
was a canard and a cliché
enthralled by every femme fatale
my coup de grâce
was la petite mort
very fin de siècle
i was an artiste
and an auteur
a blasé raconteur
without panache
such was my naiveté
i had a nom de plume
and a nom de guerre
for every single metier
suffering such malaise
perhaps even ennui
sapped of elan vital
and drained of joie de vivre
under an idée fixe
forever looking for a je ne sais quoi
but always with noblesse oblige
je ne regrette rien
