Time and time again, perfection sees none.

Greatest creation for the best of fun.

But, I know nothing is to come from this,

for an emptiness resides inside me.

The greatest of great creates more sweet bliss,

but she always gives the correct decree.

I can't help and miss the old joy I once had.

Now her greatness is all that all desire.

I'm just a peasant to greatness, oh, sire.

She has grace, kindness, bliss. It drives me mad.

For what I have is nothing in her eyes.

The one thing she desires, it all else lies,

she smiles, she laughs, she cries. What vanity.

In madness, in sanity, I'm empty.