A Passe-porte for the Louvre

As we paced back and forth in the maze of the huddled hushed statues, it suddenly dawned on me Chéri that the numbed one-eyed sphere was Trapp. Embezzzled in the slut-machine of the no-space outside, I press your hand and you smile a farcical rainbow. Oh je t'adore Monsieur (pronounced in a droll drawl as you cuddle me). Got two for an exit, a snubbed-nose man exclaims. "Get lost", We say in a criss-cross song a silly mallard told me last Friday. But we want to get out, into the entre-chambre of Monsignore and, there, low after the ascending, semi-impressed flight of stairs, there, the crimson, all-red and glowing magnifique spectacolo. Take a snap, two shots, and I swoon into your arms, oh my! Can I love you More, Thomas, than this long asparagus of a woman with the circled white scarf who winks at you. "Ailuv Yoo" (by the way you can only hear that ancient old song when wrapped under a quilt with your petite sweetie. Well, anyway, shall we stay here, after all, we are not far from A Better Place.