What a thrill it is to be the Nothing Monarch,
An astounding happenstance!
O how the life I lead should be
Bigger than it actually is,
Longing on the velvet red chaise,
Attended by Egyptian-blue butterflies,
By men made of stone,
Each of them saying nothing at all,
Nothing of importance.
At all, at all!
Stand up, o lord of them!
It is quite the disease of a different capacity,
So it will most certainly be
A guarantee I will not know
Anything in the world.
Have I continued to muster
Myself upon dainty chairs
In estates not belonging to me?
O the non-existent self-importance,
Get up, get up!
Get up, get up!
I sow seeds in the mess I lay in
Like they are meant to grow
With me forever.
I never want to get up!
I am the child of a million
Involuntary circumstances,
Of a million hurts,
A sad stick in a sad
Vase in a sad room
Of a sad psychiatric ward.
It is quite the disease,
Of the unfathomable variety-
Get up! Get up!
