Clam, who—as you may judge from this narrative—has some claim to be noticed in any complete anthology of [p095] French writers in prose, has “teased the muse” at times. But his poems echo the prevailing note of his century—they are cynical and melancholy. You may judge by these three verses on the death of a comrade in the show. Clam dedicated them to me:
“Elle est morte, la cabotine,
Sans avoir essuyé son blanc,
A la bouche une cavatine,
Son bouquet de fleurs sur le flanc.
Dans sa “caravane,” on la garde
Entre un cierge et des litres bus;
Sa mère l’habille et la farde
Comme elle a fait pour ses débuts.
Elle attend qu’on lève la trappe