The most beautiful thing I love in a man:
The art of his voice and the stroke of his hand
Belong to a panther, a widow, a ghoul.
A freak of nature. Semi-clean soul.
Wrist to fingertips: "Touch the spindle, my sweet"
Cool to the prick, yet warm to the teat
Watch from afar: look, but don't touch
Eat her with eyes, but don't swallow much.
Crave for her body, her song, her life
Ask her to marry, but never to wife
Hold your black tongue, your confessions of truth
Anger is wasted on such hapless youth
Give her the choice you know she can't make
Pray she finds happiness past this lake
Be your own fool, convinced that she cries
For the life of Vicomte and the good in his eyes
If Shakespeare was right: to thy ownself be true,
Then mask-less tonight, she should be with you.
Alas, human nature gifts us with flaws
Churning fear against love as she loves the Bourgeois
But can she compare him to the thrusts of "Don Juan"?
As she sways to the music in that monster, your spawn?
Let him calm her with hands wiping past tears
As her mouth calls safety but her nails dig for fear.
When it grows in her mind that she won't hear again
The Voice that bleeds beauty, of all the king's men,
Then my dark knight, you've won the magnificent tale
Of happy endings unwritten by candors unveiled.
Your voice and your bones, your ring and your song
Sleeps in a casket engraved "My Don Juan."
He wishes he were you, as clever and dull
As the man who is everything owns nothing at all.
But don't worry, my Erik, there is gain in your loss
After death came the truth, after which came chaos.
Touched is the world, who knows of The Beast
dont Belle finale le choix l'a fait très triste.
To knotted-bow endings, to gallants in white
To ducklings turned swans, to ogres at night
To Gastons who rape and walk the world as they'd please
We may chase De Chagny's, but our hearts run with beasts.