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.



Im 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.

Id 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 Algeria!:

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.

Don't conk Boulogne it has a sore

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 youre 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

Whos 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