O John if only you knew how your name is twisted into daggered fleurs de lys how they baptize this jabbering city annually in bannering blue flames. You would cover your bearded chin in shame would regret how your eccentricity has changed by some ancestral alchemy to the pyrite of political fame. Once fed through the machine of history Saint-Jean becomes saint gens, Gens du pays an anthem crackling from parched ember lips brewing thirst inside a tribal ellipse, distrust rises like vapour, a halo for Mount-Royal as Le Peuple swoons below.
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