Let me take off your rusty crown
made of an ash-tray
with your dreams of better life with a hound,
a villa where you'd like to stay
with cherries and a cherub
and a butler speaking Queen's English
serving you pancakes with the maple syrup
though you can't speak English.
Let me take off your rusty armor
made of the used wires
they are your saccharine, grey carma
with your dreams of oysters and sapphires
of a cigarette-case and a bunch of letters
from the Prince of Wales
but he gives promises and then shatters
though in your head you believe his tales.
Let me grab your rusty sword
made of a metal vacuum cleaner
with which you let your rage be poured
on those whose dreams are bigger and grass is greener
and who are natural-born petty aristocrats
with mice and cockroaches in their filthy castles
but you hate being one of a house-wives vassals
gnawing yourself away with envy
wanting to feed the whole world with fish & chips
but your jealousy is so heavy
and unjust are your whips
so do not envy my electronic weary eyes
and, please, let me be me
'cause my stories about court and balls and ladies are not lies
and you'll never see all this vast world that I see.