When it appeared I was walking the ladder of kings 
drawn like Enoch in a chariot of fire 
They came with a strange diagnosis

I wonder why I couldn't marry the President's wife 
My old darling who loved me like her gold box
And returns of her seventh fancy flights 

The mad one may be peculiar, often saner than priests 
What did they not say of our black Rasputin  
Whose Nostradamus sight forsaw 
The unprintable misery of our fair-haired living
   
The king buried the albino straight up 
So he wouldnt come again with his strange pigment. 
The hunch back had his knob chopped for herbal cure 
In the perfection of strange errors and recidivism 

I suppose there may not be rain 
Without clouds, storms, thunder and lightning. 
The earth is endlessly dark barnishing light and laughters.