Deep-seated was the need for me back then
to see and touch the actual fabric of this land.
We still were boys equipped with calluses like men,
enthralled by pheromones and one expanding gland.

They sent the happy ones from school to Vietnam
to chase the evil through the jungles straight to hell.
And pledged allegiance to the flag and Uncle Sam
still quite convinced that liberté was just a bell.

I joined the cowards then and left the Mother Lode,
smoked Gauloise and drank Pernod at Moulin Rouge.
But when I stumbled down the Latin Quarter road
there first was thunder then a terrible deluge.

A legionnaire stood on a box and preached his stuff
about the end of man's existence and his dreams.
He said that things were only slowly getting tough,
but that society was bursting at the seams.

I pointed quickly to the avenue of gravel
where smaller vehicles could surely disappear.
And saw the fabric of our promised land unravel
the legionnaire just stood and nodded. Yes, I hear.

Herbert Nehrlich

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/le-suicide-de-mon-pays/