Chanting is interdicted in public. That means: You Joe Schmo are not welcome to sing on the streets of Paris, nor in any back alleys either for that matter. The Eiffel Tower hates your voice, so screechy it has pierced holes like lace in that once-solid obelisk and as for the Louvre, it remains in the shade, gasping for breath after your non-operatic outbursts while the dust storms you have raised in the Tuilleries have been most welcome, for the hidden couples hiding there happy not to be found and left gasping for breath and not from kissing either. And furthermore while others are obliged to protect their heads from flying ravens in the Place Bastille we are willing to make an exception of you for to be pooped on the poll could only help your yelp to the drums on the rue Dragon where none have been seen in eons save for your wife last Halloween dressed in drag on a day not noted in this City of Lights -- the dark alone saved her from eternal mortification. Still I am obligated to protect your head the property head on top of your neck from its own misfortune -- you the obligatory thinker of the pair while I have tete a tete with our au pair not far from your fair but misfortunately dead head like Ginsberg on a toot standing moot (most unusually for him) reciting Proust in the nude, something Proust himself never did or at least not that scholars know and so I bid you and your pair of heads Goodbye.