Issue 34, Spring-Summer 1965
Listen friend, let me tell you bout the metro. Tha’s the subway in Paris, aw ratheh the meat packin business. See, they pack you in that train like a suitcase, you know, at rush hour—everybody rushin, nobody movin and stuff. And you is stuffed, baby. People so bunched they got to hold their breaff, you know, to get a little more room, to breave, ma’. Yeah, you got to hold your breaff to breave. You oughta dig all them people, ma’, so shiney with their whiteness, which is next to Godliness, you know. See, here, they let you mingle wiff white cats. But in America, land that ah love, you see, they got warshin machine laws, ma’. You dig, never mix light wiff dark colors, might run into each other. Yeah, might mix.
Now all those people was payin to get squashed; baby, they was fightin faw the privilege. But once they’s inside, and them doors close, pal, them cats are underprivileged, for air and do. They’s underfoot, you dig. You can forget about it, ma’, you trapped.
Well, ah buy my ticket like a stone fool—an ah buy second class. See, in the U.S., ma’, if you’s colored you don’t hafta pay to go second class, you understand. Then ahm waitin in line to get my ticket punched; lateh on, it ain’t yaw ticket that gets punched. But they start you out simple, so you get the feel, they let you slide. So dig, ahm waitin in this line what ain’t zactly straight, dis line was drunk, whooee. It went round the corner, here an there, in an out, up an down, all Over the jalm, boy. Look like it had too much French wine, you know. “Waa-n rouge” is what they call it over there. Them grapes ain’t good faw you, ma’, but they good to you.
You know, the French ack like they ain’t got no coins, dress like a Care package. That’s right. The troof is they famous for making bread; they call it “pain”. Boy, ah can stand that kind of pain all day, mmh.
Don’t get me wrong aw nuffm, see, ah ain’t tryin to flout you wiff my societyness like some a them Paris cats—think they bad aw somethin; you know, tossin their