Cyrano Theme

Would you have me to seek out some wealthy patron and crawl like a clinging vine up the lordly tree, rising by deceit and trickery instead of my own strength? No thank you. Imitate what others do and dedicate my works to the rich in the hope of arousing a smile of recognition from some sterile face? No thank you.

Breakfast every day on insults. Wear out my knees and warp my spine with endless bowing and growling in the dust. No thank you. Become a master of hypocrisy and opportunism, never letting my right hand know what my left is doing.

Burn incense for some glorified idol of the day. Pull all the proper springs. No, thank you. Shall I become the captain of some literary cult by writing stupid love songs for wealthy widows and navigate to success with their size, filling out my sales, paying some publisher to print my poems, and bribe some critic to review them?

No, thank you. Shall I become the high priest of a petty group of packed writers who've dined together once a week? No, I thank you. Shall I build my reputation on one flawless poem and never write another?

Should I scheme to get my name mentioned in the columns of some newspaper and smack my lips over the little phrases written about me? No, thank you. Can I calculate and scheme? Live and fear, make visits instead of rhymes, meet all the right people, seek introductions and favors?

No, thank you. No, I thank you. And again, I thank you. Oh, my friend, I prefer to sing to laugh, to read, to travel light in my own way, to see things as they are, and speak out without fear, to park my hat at any angle that I choose, to duel if necessary, for a quick yes or no.