The Morning Chisleu

Upon the burbon hill

The drunkest street on the planet,

There lives a woman

A warrior-like tidal wave

Dressed in pink and blue shivers,

She walks like she's confident

Across the grandeur ball

It is the year 1897

Two souls touch each other defiantly;

Behold the two kisses

That match the glass of wine,

A seductive piece of art

That is hanging on the wall

Such historic lines

Breaks three generations

For the waters of chisleu speak...

Good morning my loves

For two souls exist

Such exquisite men and women agree,

This grandeur ball

Has many dresses

Behold the savard moon and its curses

And what is breakfast

Without a spiritual bath?

Let the waters of chisleu speak, for they speak currently

Defiant lives define the works of art...

O kiss me, you fool

The slaughter rain hits the sun

For the sun is a role contrived

What shall speak to me in a movie?

And upon that burbon hill

Two souls feel another,

And the streets boggle up the riot

That speaks of women of change,

For the men are steadily watching...

I have a confession, my morning chisleu

For I too am a woman of the world

And privately I own these things

For my diamond has turned into a pearl,

I now drink my own water

For there is no poison here

So power to 1897...I was never born again.