Ode to the Zouzou

O zouzou, how brave you are on your battered Jog scooter, weaving in and out of traffic, an artist of the two-wheeled form

O zouzou, how dashing you are as you stand tall under the weight of all the Brylcreem that has established permanent residence from the roots of your hair to the tip of your lush pony tail

O zouzou, how charming you are when you whistle at young ladies passing by, forever stealing their hearts. All helpless victims at your feet. 2eww 2eww.

O zouzou, how cool you are, reclining against walls in department stores sneering at the passers by

O zouzou, how pensive you are, sitting on your throne of white plastic on the sidewalk committing the remnants of pumpkin seeds to the seaside air

O zouzou, how distinguished you are in your 1991 Mercedes CE Coupe with Serround bass and windows darker than the night itself, a true lover of the classic car

O zouzou, how I love it when you cheer on-screen kisses and bad-guy punch-outs at the cinema, a true lover of the arts you are

O zouzou, how I rejoice when the stars align and place me next to you in traffic as I gently hear the sounds of Assi Al Halani waft over from your pirated CD to my eager ears

O zouzou, how I admire the cigarette dangling magically from your lip all day, oscillating with the uttering of every new word

O zouzou, how I love thee.