Sing, O Muse, of the Englishman abroad,
who strode into Gaul with tongue untrained,
armed not with verbs nor conjugations,
but with a loaf, a slab, a bottle—
trinity eternal of survival.

Behold the Baguette,
twin spears of wheat and fire,
their crusts crackling like the shields of Troy.
Lo! The Pâté de Campagne,
grey as storm-clouds, marbled as Olympus itself,
its noble fat a balm for weary travellers.
And there, the Rasteau, dark river of Dionysus,
2017 vintage—
a draught to embolden the timid,
to turn “Parlez-vous anglais?”
into a declaration of conquest.

He came unto Le Mans,
where the engines howled like Cerberus unchained,
and the track burned eternal with rubber and pride.
There, men wrestled not with swords,
but with pistons and petrol,
for one full day and one full night.

Yet our hero,
with only four words—
“Un café, s’il vous plaît”—
stood unshaken.
What need of eloquence,
when one holds the Bread of Ages,
the Meat of Peasants,
the Wine of Kings?

And should he perish,
let it be written:
Here lies the man who spoke no French,
yet feasted as though he owned the land.