A man as vain as thee my love not knows,

For such a gent'man gentle knows not of.

Whose foulness in precious face lingers not,

For thy wick'dness in lying manners hides.

But Bourgeois thy greatness he saw indeed,

And single rain to thunderstorms doth leads:

Thy mob by sexist form eas'ly thee loves,

Thus Bourgeoisie thy pureness not unsee.

But only thy foulness I am custom.

If e'er alone, alone I could not be.

May thee please with me doth join all alone,

For all my regards to thee I must owe.

No matter how free of judgement we are,

Allways and fore'er my soul to thee b'longs.