Lucien could turn a phrase
Until more than phrases turned on him.
Just twenty, he lept to life’s maze,
With angelic face and figure trim.
Paris with its jumbled rues
Of dames and writers sweet as sucre:
Actresses and poets whose
Careers were impoverished or trés lucre.
Onto pages and stages words were poured:
Material met poesy.
And production wherein money is adored
Turned illusions black, once fresh and rosy.
Death, betrayal, greed, deceits
Come quick in modernity’s illusory treats.
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