The L's and A's
In the quarter century five hundred and six,
I, Francois Villon, ex-furrier,
Considering the rent, a sense of race,
The reign of debts and the frankness of a furrier
Who dotes on his work constantly.
Come on Vegetables! The racket of a
Sage Roman, grand counselor,
Or the treatment of a sick mosquito...
In these times that I sit on the divan,
All through Christmas, the station of the dead,
Where you can live, lob and invent.
And when my tent is my home,
For the free starches and the pressed tissue,
I see myself as the voodoo law breaker,
The very randy prisoner
Whose only cure is the breakage.
I'm in the face of a tall falcon.
Who is going to sell my deviant youth
With the consent of the mother falcon,
Without which I would start digging or remedial reading
Through the suffering, clam-baked sky
And throught the pissed-off vengeance of a woman
Whose every god has vanished
Lift her up and call her Queen Michelle Piano.
I’m as redundant as looking at a mirror
That regards beauty with some semblance
Of sophisticated deceit
Just when the flanks have trespassed against me
Being sick isn't my verse, my white feet
And my faults side by side.
Plant me four feet under the complaints
And knock and enter with a coin.
The mirror reduces me to a plank
That has a felonious side and a durable side
That can talk about sin and mercy
And desire and ordering out but also can suffer
Death, and anything else that would stop my existence.
I’d sooner holler to secure a fur
Than romp through life soldering things
Without dignity and without spitting out regrets!
For the dangers are obvious
My, my aren't they! I cry, departing.
Goodbye! I mean, Oh woe is
A country that does not have a room with a view for me,
Its sad grace too convenient to part with.
For her death and dismemberment we sing
Into the fort (night), I am a man to martyr
My name and number part of the sanity clause.
Cancel my departure so that it
Endures, sift through my bologna cologne:
, my poor over-conceited senses,
Other than me, are what I long for.
it has a sore Boulogne
Knee, foot and altimeter.
It is poor me, pitiful and besodden!
Whose God will open up my clam!?
And also, you leave and I'm at fault,
And you return and you’re certain
(I am not a man without faults,
I don't have a quarter, a seer and I disdain
To live out a humanity that is incertain,
Before death and when I relax
I do so by shouting and paying for some Roy Tans),
To establish her lazy presence.
Before I am here, out comes the name of the father,
And of the son and of the Spirit of Santa
And out comes the glory of a mother
Who’s as cute as rain without parrot.
I am lazy and on par with God. I am a brute
And a maestro: Willy Villon,
Who, in honor of the same, brutal name,
Lives in a mess tent and leaves the bell on.
Has a hundred donkeys that are jaded