In books you’re always looking at the sea!

The sea is your mirror, you look like an ass

In the infinite derailments on your street

And your spirit is less patriotic than a golf ball.

You want to jump onto the scene with your image,

But you’re embarrassed by your eyes and your arms, and your heart

Was so distracted several times by rumours

Dropped onto your plate that it made your hair unmanageable, indomitable, savage and brown.

You are always both a violin player and discrete.

Pal o’ mine, the empty set sounds like it’s in love with your engineering.

O sea, the empty set knows what’s in your security deposit box

And the aunt who’s buried her secrets in your backyard.

And because the violin is a very cold instrument

That you battle without pity or remorse,

Like a bank teller you love blood and death.

O round-the-clock looters! O trophyless brothers!