Exalted in the happiness of pain,
The world is crowning me with strange disdain!
How proud I’ll be within its reverie:
My wreath’s an honour, undeserved of me.
My rough exterior’s inscribed by hate,
a fitting way to demonstrate my fate.
(Or else, I seem too arrogant, too proud,
rejoicing silently of hateful crowds.)
But like most monarchs I shall take to bed,
a-weary of the honours I’ve received.
And soon, as words begin to crowd my head,
I realize I have many woes to grieve.
And hate accumulates as pride grows dim…
the world is mine, and yet I serve its whims.