| She wrote pristine verses on the ceiling of my soul |
| Till the British Museum said, «slow down» |
| She sang Angelique songs |
| Till the devil took tongs and pulled the fire out |
| It’s hard to bear |
| Someone so stunning |
| Makes you tired |
| You realise your whole life’s misfired |
| Then the seamstress touched me and my stitches fell away |
| And the choir was singing though I could not hear a word, they said |
| «You're falling up to heaven but you’re the wrong way down» |
| Pandemonium in the palace |
| Desperation on the throne |
| To tell the first that first is last |
| You see, she’s finally gone home |
| She wrote sixteen verses |
| That my memory slipped upon |
| Though my clutching fingers |
| Held some pieces and the song |
| It’s hard to bear |
| Someone so stunning |
| Makes you tired |
| You realise your whole life’s misfired |
| Pandemonium in the palace |
| Desperation on the throne |
| To tell the first that first is last |
| You see, she’s finally gone home |
| She wrote sixteen verses |
| That my memory slipped upon |
| Though my clutching fingers |
| Held some pieces and the song |