Aristocracy of Misfortune Call my hair a brush, recall that I am primitive with a wide green streak. Come by, I will fill my pipe, I have words about great Musil. A man without iron shoes floats with a gay abandon above monochrome, flat crowds. But how I fall down, sad moon, sad me, peppered with dreams demure. Ambition writ large, I await parties in Montmartre, practice my condescension, wheeze another time alone, free to shed this husk, I keen.