The Pasquinade of Life

The Pasquinade Of Life

I am the Mozart of my name
 And I wait for you my Je’ amour
To paint the parfai’d affair
And cross the fur elise of time
O vogue of vogues
This is my golden Gilgamesh
The triumph of a poet king
What is the pasquinade of life?
I have heard Arabic tongues confess
The heart of liberty knows no tyranny
Love is written in visions of glory
Even where the vogues of fate do not rescind
Nor can my sorrows un nascent
Therefore give death his due
and I shall be a king
For thus one shekel of her love
I do not tauntalize the vampires of my soul
Therefore, I unleash the Venus of my tongue
For I am Ghetto pale with words
No Mona Lisa smile shall touch my sorrow
Nor cliché my love with roses pale war
They say at night even poets fall in love on the riviera
For this affair is more elegant than Paris at night
I monsieur, in dreams of tyranny
Triumph in the tombs of love
Thus I awe with jealous rage
Sweet nymph of ordinary revenge
I am the villain of my own heart
Au revoir O! ghost of sorrow so bequeathed
I fancy some curiosity embraced with orthodox misconception
I drink to the elysian in your eyes
Thus I devise upon the forge of time
My soul aghast with ravishment
The epic of my holy phobia
What romance then of poets makes
When their vogues have thus incensed?
I shall vanquish these professed libertines
In bondage and in passion
For I loved a Grecian girl of exquisite lace
With agarazo eyes
She is magnificent
Her tongue is a blasphemy of gothic love
She is absolutely absolute in beauty
This is the genius of the French noir
Nights in white satin will thus confess my ravishment
 For I was born in Toulon.
A fiend aflame in the vogue of suffering
Pass me some gothic and I’ll open your eyes
Beauvoir my mon cheri
As you blush like last summer’s rose
Make love to me in my ancient castle of romaunt
For I am vexed with Aramaic memories
This is my exquisite sunas
For even the voguest Byzantium desert is filled with sand
The camels are on the horizon
! O! exquisite sands of love
I thrall the chains of fate
For her beauty I am ego vain
Because Just like Picasso, I am a fiend for simplicity
I shall ascend in death
For She loves my gothic forte
me the slow thought of public vows Brings me to my knees
No vogue of broken hearts to break
For in death we kiss the scars of fate
Bethralled in tongue thy hand has touched
My sweet fatigue!
Let not mine eye bethrall the tongue of truth
Therefore A kiss of tet a tete and Paris is mine
Your lips move geniusly As you dominate my heart
Revenge not the sorrow which I must indulge
for This masquerade of innocence is my les miserables
for I am a gentleman of thy kisses Madam
a lunatic of such mundane
Shall languish in the void of fame
One shekel for a grain of sand
And Yet She conquered me like Paris at night
Who is the connoisseur of love?
Ah sweet romance!
For even a goddess can break a king
Now I have the lute of paradise!