"There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness"-
It seemed to be just for a minute,
Life was prepared for respiration-
But stronger than this Pseudo-Philon
Words are no ease and at least it's all the same...

You can't say that it's a torture-
The little ballet dancer's just overstrained himself...
The Don Quixotte who played a faun
But the windmills turned, yes the windmills all turned black.
A white cross and a necklace
All the voices in his head shout shrill-
But stronger than a Pseudo-Philon
Words are no relief and at last it's all the same...

He cuts for a minute the wires in his head and
Settles on a rat-hat, settles on a black cat
Pain in his eyes and God in his mind
He could feel divine pleasures lest the wine was a torture-bed
On the carpet he's grabbing for breath
Slightly showing his teeth to a bat
But he keeps up his mind and he keeps up the black cat
And we who are sane, can we say that that's an ease?
He made the wrong, wrong jump with his young heart
He just couldn't see the divine choreography
This might be an extemporary, an expostulate,
An expurgatory piece
Each fibre of his senses broken
There's a little tiddle-fiddle in his head-
But stronger than a Pseudo-Philon
Words are no ease and at least it's all the same...

"A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief
In word or sigh, or tear"-
It seemed to be just for a second,
Life was prepared for respiration-
But stronger than this Pseudo-Philon
Words are no relief and at last it's all the same...
- Free me from mine thoughts! -