A short poem, from the point of view of a frenchman
 

"Oh my, Where are my manners? let me take your coat"
I put out my zigarette, and lightly touch her throat
"Why are you so tense? Iz it something I said?
Have another glass of wine, and take a seat zere on le bed"

With a move so sly and french, I sidle in real close
I slowly remove her pumps, and now I see her toes
"Your pieds look tired, please, let me rub them for a while"
With a hint of hesitation, she says "d'accord then" with a smile

"You feel so tense" but little does she know my master plan
Like butter on hot croissant she will melt within my hands
"Do you have a boyfriend then, if I may be so bold?"
"We just broke up" and I can tell the wine is taking hold.

"Let me move to your shoulders; don't be afraid, I will not bite
unless you want me to" I say, and she replies "well I just might"
Things are heating up now, and at tremendous speed
"if you just slip off that top then I can give you what you need"

At first she acts surprised, I think I might have moved too fast
"I just meant a massage," next thing I know her fluster's passed
So things proceed as planned and she is nice and calm
I gently bite her ear and place my hand upon her arm

Slowly she turns and I stare into her green eyes
"Haricots verns" I say, and I let out a heavy sigh
And what happened next I cannot tell you here
Lorsque vous devenez mine alors je peux parler de vous salir

This line implies that a Frenchman has any manners to begin with, which is quite clearly false. Might want to take it out.