They took me to Norway on an old boat. They wanted me to broker peace. Then, during the war, you left me. I died in a limousine while you sang to Italian aristocrats. Funny I can say this now: God loves you.
Someday I will become your guru. You will be beautiful in silks and I will give you the mantra: Ma-Ra. In some ways, it has already happened. Little consolation, high above the Atlantic.