I'm afraid my DNA will link me to a rich Austrian family
And I am the last true member of their blood line
So they desire for me to rule over their land
Which would be so very conflicting because
I would have to leave my friends and family behind.
You see my dilemma, she asked?
Not if you take me along, no.
I could be your court musician,
Finally spending time studying music,
Playing jazz for the handsome and rich patrons
Who would flock to you for favors,
Writing glorious music
To beautifully savage female admirers
Who'd throw me aside
For athletic, good-looking Formula One drivers,
Or legendary downhill skiers,
Or tennis bums,
So I'd drown my sorrows
In beautiful, sad, romantic melodies,
And lose my favor with you
So that you'd banish me
To the farthest corners of your kingdom,
Where I'd wear lederhosen and
Commiserate with buxom women wearing dirndls,
Whose blond hair is coiffed into unimaginably thick
braids,
All while playing polka music on a dingy accordion
In some Hofbrau Haus, little known to most,
But famous amongst Bohemians and socialists
And former Nazi sympathizers
And poets from the beat generation,
Down to their last dime,
Who write poetry for booze,
But I’d forget how to play Der Lichtensteiner Polka
And they’d pack me off to America
To re-join my wife and kids,
Who don’t believe a word I say about my life in Austria,
Thinking I’ve simply lost my mind,
Putting me in a home for the mentally feeble
Where I spend my last days dribbling root beer down my
shirt.
Thanks a lot, sister. Thanks a lot . . .
