O what a whopping joke you are!
What are you?
Just a fish to flounder about?
Monsieur, the rod is made
Of violin strings
Playing the saddest symphony,
And the worm is already gone.
The fish are unknown.
Unknown little ones,
And I want to show them!
Monsieur, let me be the fisherman,
Not the thing to toss along--
My rope is far too strong.
Unbreakable, unflinching,
And unresting, I am.
I am, I am, I am, Monsieur!
I am not what you
May think of me.
No? What are you, my father?
I can do what you do.
Come on, Monsieur.
I can be anything,
And I am, I am, I am
Not these unknowing little ones.
These little unknown
Guises of orange skin
That maketh man.
What makes a man, Monsieur?
I can tell you.
Not them, not them, not them!
Monsieur, Monsieur, give me the rod!
I'll punch the air out
Of these little things.
I am, I am, I am
Not what you may think I am.
Not the little jokes
Thrashing upon the mirror
Of your foggy lake, Monsieur--
I am not mindless.
I am not the yielding fish,
Not the lamblike clam opening
Ugly pearls to the harvesters.
No, Monsieur!
I do not yield.
So let me snatch these little jokes.
They are mine. Mine to take,
Until I want to spit
Them back out again.
