Between a coffee and a cognac I taste,
with a thrill, both Kafka and Proust.

My parents, it’s pertinent to remark,
of course always preferred Remarque.

My grandfather, when he drank a cup of wine
tearfully recited Lamartine.

But his father, simple as the grapevine,
sang the Miorita in his singular vein.

Poor soul, he didn’t know of any poet:
my great-grandfather was illiterate.