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 ghost. A soul.

A freak of nature. Vampire. Creole.

Perfected to fingertips: "touch the spindle", not love

Embody a mask, and the silk of your gloves

Watch from afar: look, but don't touch

Taste lust in your veins, but don't swallow much.

Long for her body, her mind, her life

Have her to marry, but never to wife

Hold your dark tongue, your confessions of truth

Unleash the frustration on the story tale youth

Give her the choice you know she can't make

Pray she finds happiness beyond the black lake

Be your own fool, convinced that she cries

For the life of Vicomte and the good in his eyes

If Shakespeare was right: one must say what he hides

Listen to the wise, and she'll be by your side

Alas human nature gives us one flaw

To churn pain into destiny, love into bourgeois

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

The enchanted forests and the sadness you've spawned?

Can she replace the aura of your company at night

When her hands cling to his body but regret's shaking inside?

When it dawns on her mind that she will never hear again

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

My dark knight, you've embodied a magnificent tale

Of happy endings doomed because candors are veiled.

Your rose and your mask, your ring and your song

Buried in a coffin of the dreams of Don Juan.

He wishes he were you, as brilliant in folly

As someone who won and lost something so costly…

But don't despair, my Erik, you're not all barren in loss

After death came the truth, and after truth came chaos.

Amazing how the world knows the tale of the beast

Who's loved by his beauty but gave up his leash

To storybook endings, to Prince Charmings in white

To ducklings turned swans, to ogres at night

To Gaston's who rule and walk the world as he pleased

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