An idea merged and as I purged, it to life, she screamed a delight, took this plan and told the man it was hers and now she’s cursed by me I loathe, the lonely goat, upon her hill, by the windowsill, she sits in wait , for another idea, for she has none, of her own. What a foolish mind, oh and all those lies, the vom is great, runs of her hill, amongst the village, but soon the sleepy, will see the spew, of the news and her need, to control it all. Farewell and adios Amadeus