Corps Exquis

I had dinner with Baudelaire 
last night. No Flowers of Evil lines
came out of his mouth. But
A moth was dangerously leaning
forward on the edge of his 
glass of red wine, intoxicated
by the fumes of a Gitanes
cigarette half-consumed by
Sartre's and Beauvoir's lungs next table.
Picasso barged in, in his cubic phase
and, fair and square, smacked 
the moth down to its deadly misery, 
gave Sartre a saucy French kiss (cutting
then his throat) and then
stabbed Beauvoir to death.

Baudelaire stared at all this 
mess and slowly uttered a poem 
that sounded like an epitaph:

"We shall have beds full of subtle perfumes, 
Divans as deep as graves, and on the shelves 
Will be strange flowers that blossomed for us 
under more beautiful heavens."

And so I decided to leave this nonsense place 
to have an exquisite big-sized pizza
with four steaming cheeses and a coke
and send all this absurd
people to hell.