So once again i try to warm the long cold tea
And see if i am able to narrow down
Who is the one that i call me
For which one needs a powerful metaphore
And today i sense that medieval characters
Are the ones who will open that door
I certainly wouldn\'t be the king
Far too much responsibility and not enough fun
Comes with the golden ring and the heavy crown
And i could not be his council either
I don\'t have enough wisdome for myself
So me advising a king seems doubtful
So the honorable knight you might think perhaps
For that i lack physical strenght discipline and my morals are a mess
And of honor i have that much less
Then a man of faith
A servent of the Lord - the priest
But the god himslef inside my mind is long deceased
No - i have always seen myslef as a hand of chaos
Someone who delights in mischief and pathos
A man of wit rather than blade who\'s been seduced by love of beauty not faith
A man fond of words
The reapeter of lines
Yet seemingly silent observer
Lover of drama and grand as well as sly gestures
That is why i see myslef
Among the bards and the jesters
The joker the clown the fool
Who whields no sword and bows to no cross
For his mind is his only tool
Voluntary self appointed laughingstock
Who very much enjoys the shock
Inflicted by his words to a common flock
The one who can pretend to be any one
Because in reality
Deep in his heart he knows he\'s no one
Just a blank page
Waiting to be filled
With laughter or rage
To him it makes a little difference
Whatever pleases the audience
And there stubborn ignorance
Thanks to which they are unable to notice
That all the jokes only mask
His love induced psychosis
And all the poems are nothing but a help crys
Which he will write until the day
He finally dies