where he, the master had once stood,
though swaying, full of straight Pernod,
he’d slur his speech, of course
but was immensely proud he had created
the label for his drink, Pernod Fils.
The sons of what or whom? Monsieur Pernod
did have a wife though all his interests lay
on stony fields near le village Quimper,
where stout and handsome peasants toiled
to grow those sweet, exotic plants,
he’d go and stand among the rows to see,
and taste the virgin crop by rubbing leaves
between his ladyfingers and the sapphire ring
until a whiff of strong absynthe emerged,
he’d lick it all and offer to his learned friends
a taste of what they knew would please the gods.
And with the fingers of the hand, still wet
from what would grow into Pernod, or Pernod Fils,
he’d fondle les garçons inside the cellar’s vault.
They’d use the essence from great vats to dab
and thus refresh their sacred parts, it was routine,
he’d spend the night and on occasion weekends at the lab
and they would eat their onion salad with sardine.
She was too punctual and he hurried from the square,
her arms flew up and waved as if to greet a god,
he thought she looked like a still growing Bartlett pear,
she would not do he thought, his feelings were too odd.