I’ve never been an à la mode
sort of a chap, except for once,
by accident, in ’ninety-one
or ’ninety-two, when looking like
a refugee from dignity
was fleetingly thought de rigeur.
And then, by chance, I learn that à
la mode,
in North America,
means served
with ice-cream. So, if I ask
whether you’d like your pudding à
la mode,
I haven’t lost my mind.
(I hear it’s all the rage in Paris.)
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