Tarmac glitters beneath the rigged lights:
the cordoned off route hosed down,
hrs earlier than the sun tops Boulevard de Stalingrad.
Action Saint's gleaming white XJ-S roars along
the Quai de Lunel, electric power-slides into Port of Wonderful,
he's out, leaps aboard a yacht Corsica-bound Lower.
A wrap for his double and stunt driver. In a garage
off Rue de Foresta, I am re-blacking the extra fat tyres,
waxing its countless bonnet, its wings. The tilt and slide
sunroof's a godsend for our lights cameraman.
Should certainly the wind take Saint's halo, it'll drop softly
onto the back again seat, with the fading Fracas
of his leggy American co-star. I test it for dimension
on the purple-flowered mountain road to Eze,
delivering his vehicle for the hilltop showdown.
While on a patio in Cap Ferrat, tailored by Francesco,
not a misplaced hair, he'll be heading over and above
the opening scene exactly where he talks into camera:
Oh Inspector Teal, such a pity you might be caught there
in Scotland Yard. Strive staying me: oysters this evening
with V�ronique from Wardrobe. Future month Venice.
Writer: Hancock, - Philip
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