You came to me, Like the prodigal son. Like my prodigal son, Moulded from my flesh and blood. Enriched with my ideas and love, I had given you life.
You came to me, Like the prodigal son. I remember you from before, Although my eyes are dimmer, I remember you from before. Clear as day how you sat there, Your shirt untucked,
Your tie loosened, how you knew what to do. You knew what you were doing, To tease and manipulate me, To attract my attentions. You, so young but with the lust of Dracula himself! I remember you from before.
But look at you now, A pitiful figure. My Banquo, Mine, mine mine! My vengeful ghost, Full of a baby's venom, But with Cherubin's eyes.
But look at you now, A pitiful figure. And you have the gall to ask me for help. Me, an old man. Me, your teacher, who gave seven years to you? Who showed you what it was to love? No, no - that is the past.
I'll have no more to do with you, Banquo! No more. Never more. That is the past, And I am Ozymandias! I am the king of kings. Broken, yes,
But I am still here, Death nor Justice has sought to take me, I, the scholar, have ascended above. I have become to valuable, Too important. No, I will not help.
But do not misread my passions - My blood still scalds with desire. The fires that seize in the night, Still consume and wrack my body, As fragile as it may be. You, my Esmerelda,
My darling who I cannot touch, How you scorned me as if I was the hunchback himself! But I am still here, I still live easy in Eden, While you, the snake, The dregs of man knock at my door.
How you have disappointed me. Did I not make you to rule alongside me? Did I not afford you every luxury, Every privilege, Every misake forgiven? And how you cast me aside.
For other men in their finery and wealth. How shallow you are. This is one mistake I shall not forgive. You are not a boy anymore, You must face your dues and pay your debts. What a man you are.
How you have disappointed me. I am not one of those romantic poets that we studied, That I first employed to awaken your body, To raise your sensuality to a higher plain. No, you will find me a cruller lover now.
So begone, my Banquo! May I never see your dead eyes again, You are not my prodigal son. You will not seek penance from me.