Oh to be a chanteuse, "je ne regrette rien,"
Edith Piaf my stumbles shall triumphant rend.
Many a busker has sung my tune by the case
of a guitar gaping for coins or dollars. Disgrace
is not in the telling, the selling of a malady
recovered by melody. But in their infancy
my pitfalls are not wistful, they are foreign
to the sweet language of retrospection.