I‘m like the king in a country of geese:

Rich, but impotent; young, and carrying a very old

Bank note; aware that as with all the hems of all the dresses I accidentally brush up against,

I’m just as much at war with the dogs as I am with all the other wild beasts.

Nothing’s going to lay an egg in my kingdom: not gibbons, not falcons,

And no one’s smearing jam on their face on the balcony.

At lunch time, I’d like to sing an ugly song

Straight thru, without any distractions.

If my son so much as turns a page in the book he’s reading I’ll put him in his grave

And throw his girlfriend from the tower.

Where’s the toilet in this place?

You little kids might think this is funny

But I’ll stuff your guts with oranges until you puke,

Until you’ve gotten all the romping out of your system.

And singing in the shower I sound like the Roman conquerors,

And didn’t they look out at the world and forget what day it was?

No one will ever drive my car so long as I live

And I’ll press it on with the last drops of my blood, coolly, into the Styx.