In Eymet town there is a Dodger.
That Artful man, his name is Roger.
The Bureaucrats, both Brits and Gallic.
Have dreams of him, which are rude and phallic.
For he cuts their tape, both red and rouge;
and pricks their pomp, be it ever so huge.


When newbie pats their French do stutter.
And the Marie note gets their hearts a flutter.
To Roger,  they fly on rapid wings.
To explain to them,  those Frenchie things.
To all those woes,  he lends an ear
And sometimes sadly,  sheds a tear.


When the gendarmes with English culture clash.
And Saxon cars into Renaults crash.
Its to Roger that they all do turn;
Tho he, for peace and quiet may yearn.
He is always there, the case to clear.
 All for a fee,  of just one beer!


So if you’ve a problem, big or small.
And the foncière your skin makes crawl.
Then seek him out,  he will be found.
In Tortonis office,[1] I’ll be bound.
And on raging waters his oil will pour,
To help the cultures,  love not war.




Sadly Roger has since died and no longer plies his trade of Eymet middleman.

[1] Tortonis is one of the more traditional local bars in Eymet


This doggerel was written as a bet with Roger that I could produce something about him within one hour on a languid Summer's afternoon in Aquitaine. I think that I just made it in the time.



(c) John Hulbert 1999

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