The most beautiful thing I love in a man:

The art of his voice and the stroke of his hand

Belong to a panther, a widow, a ghoul.

A freak of nature. Semi-clean soul.

Wrist to fingertips: "Touch the spindle, my sweet"

Cool to the prick, yet warm to the teat

Watch from afar: look, but don't touch

Eat her with eyes, but don't swallow much.

Crave for her body, her song, her life

Ask her to marry, but never to wife

Hold your black tongue, your confessions of truth

Anger is wasted on such hapless youth

Give her the choice you know she can't make

Pray she finds happiness past this lake

Be your own fool, convinced that she cries

For the life of Vicomte and the good in his eyes

If Shakespeare was right: to thy ownself be true,

Then mask-less tonight, she should be with you.

Alas, human nature gifts us with flaws

Churning fear against love as she loves the Bourgeois

But can she compare him to the thrusts of "Don Juan"?

As she sways to the music in that monster, your spawn?

Let him calm her with hands wiping past tears

As her mouth calls safety but her nails dig for fear.

When it grows in her mind that she won't hear again

The Voice that bleeds beauty, of all the king's men,

Then my dark knight, you've won the magnificent tale

Of happy endings unwritten by candors unveiled.

Your voice and your bones, your ring and your song

Sleeps in a casket engraved "My Don Juan."

He wishes he were you, as clever and dull

As the man who is everything owns nothing at all.

But don't worry, my Erik, there is gain in your loss

After death came the truth, after which came chaos.

Touched is the world, who knows of The Beast

dont Belle finale le choix l'a fait très triste.

To knotted-bow endings, to gallants in white

To ducklings turned swans, to ogres at night

To Gastons who rape and walk the world as they'd please

We may chase De Chagny's, but our hearts run with beasts.