The poet is absolutely brilliant.
The poet says: death, get out, pig!
I'm such a St. George that
nobody has the right to ask me
for my passport.
The poet loves death, he respects it,
he prepares for it all his life.
He wrestles it like a tiger.
The poet is absolutely brilliant.

The poet is absolutely brilliant,
since he's the ruler of the world.
He brilliantly sits on the cosmos's shell,
he louses and currycombs,
shooting his eyes to see
where to fall in love.
Like a vacuum cleaner,
like a huge cunt,
like an anteater shoots after crustaceans
and tugs them up.
He looks at them, enjoys them
and throws them away.
Crustaceans are then initiated
and brilliant.
They roam, they roam the world.

You, Virgin,
Crustacean,
if you lie back correctly,
I'll get you into Blake's belly,
into Jesus Christ's womb.
The poet is absolutely brilliant.
The poet is absolutely brilliant,
he's the ruler of the world.