It's a little too sparse, I think.
Nothing happened before these low quality recordings were made with a bad mic on a computer with no knowledge of how to make good recordings.
and
Lyrics
With a cough and a chill, I wake and I eye my clothes with that same loathing,
And I, like him, dream and dream of the days of iron clothing.
I think, I think, I think, I think, I think...
The real me was born in a brothel, eight hundred years ago.
While the blood ran thick on my mother's thighs, the prostitutes would come and go,
But I, rising so much higher than my status should have permit,
Spent my days dancing and mingling with the noble and the rich.
And that is why I mourn Romance,
And, with that vagrant, Art, I dance.
So weep with me, child of scorn,
As I recall the day I was born.
I dream, I dream, I dream, I dream, I dream...
I keep company with fragrant names that prance the pages of histories,
And, at times, when the winds whisper my name, I seek adventure at sea.
I always return to the girl of my dreams, waiting at home by a candle in the cold,
But then I find myself alone, sitting beneath a forty-watt light bulb.
And that is why I mourn Romance,
And, with that vagrant, Art, I dance.
So weep with me, child of scorn,
As I recall the day I was born.
I hope that someday I will find time to wonder if my
Anachronistic attachment is virtuous or vicious....
I think, I dream...
