You are a post-up stand of a man,
Sullen like a German, fascist-like.
You are a man that does not give.
No, you do not give,
And perhaps I celebrate the dead when
I look at you.
It is all for nought to wait,
La Toussaint came early to me this year.
So I'd have to plant the blue chrysanthemums
Unbloomed and envy green
For a premature born Father Death.
Such a fool you are. Yes you!
There are no lines of thoughts
Or of certain thinkings and deliberations,
Except what I imagine to be there.
So loud, I do not like them,
Like a tupan beaten with broken mallets
I misused.
My post-up stand of a man-
A kind of sociopathic mannequin
With eyes so blue, so Saxon,
That I cannot stand a cyan sky.
O what a shame,
Das Geld funnyman!
It was not my plan for me
To disdain and distance myself
From guiltless nature.
Move your mouth.
You can't?
Go figure, lay figure.
You are a post-up stand of a man,
And I know only one.
I do not like to celebrate the dead when
I look at you,
Bastard. Screw you!
I am not a Frenchman, post-up stand of a man.
I want to see clearly.
I want to eat my king cake of marzipan
And its pigs hiding inside.
I want to be done
With the likes of an I cannot man.
I can, I can.
I will, and so I am!
I can, I can, I will, and so I am.
