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.