(The Old Lady swats a mosquito. Cunegonde yawns.)
No doubt you'll think I'm giving in
To petulance and malice,
But in candor I am forced to say
That I'm sick of gracious living in
This stuffy little palace
And I wish that I could leave today.
I have suffered a lot
And I'm certainly not
Unaware that this life has its black side.
I have starved in a ditch,
I've been burned for a witch,
And I'm missing the half of my backside.
I've been beaten and whipped
And repeatedly stripped,
I've been forced into all kinds of whoredom;
But I'm finding of late
That the very worst fate
Is to perish of comfort and BOREDOM.
It was three years ago,
As you very well know,
That you said we would soon have a wedding;
Every day you forget
What you promised, and yet
You continue to rumple my bedding.
I'll no longer bring shame
On my family name,
I had rather lie down and be buried;
No, I'll not lead the life
Of an unwedded wife:
Tell me, when are we going to be MARRIED?
I was once, what is more,
Nearly sawed in four
By a specially clumsy magician;
And you'd think I would feel
After such an ordeal
That there's charm in my present position.
But I'd far rather be
In a tempest at sea,
Or a bloody North African riot,
Than to sit in this dump
On what's left of my rump
And put up with this terrible QUIET
Comfort and boredom and QUIET
When are we going to be MARRIED?
When are we going to be...
Quiet! Last Update: June, 10th 2013