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He was born in Brooklyn |
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And grew up in the Church of Rome |
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There was a girl there who loved him and had faith |
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He loved her like a madman, he loved her like a fool |
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He got a lot of big ideas |
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And fought his way up to mad avenue |
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He navigated that bizarre world easily |
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He did good work and he was smart |
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He knew his superiors, he disdained his inferiors |
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He was proud and dignified |
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And she waited |
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The more money made |
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The more he wanted |
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The more glory he got |
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The more he wanted |
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His appetites were never sated |
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Everything he knew about himself |
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He drew from what was around him |
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You know |
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This suit is you |
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This car is you |
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This studio is you |
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People were no different |
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People were also his mirrors |
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Often he was their mirror as well |
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Life became complicated |
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And overstated |
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And underrated |
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And she waited |
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The more power he got |
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The more he wanted (naturally) |
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The more women he had |
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The more he wanted |
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His appetites were never sated |
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She finally married a wine salesman |
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And had three children |
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Sometimes he thinks of her |
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But it's a gnawing, painful memory |
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Eventually, like Napoleon, he attacked Russia |
