But it's the hermaphrodite
The one of the sidekick
The one you don't see
The one you don't feel sorry for
The one who goes
Down the road, at any cost
In the golden car of the one who'll pay
Oh! My Lady the Queen
Tell me: "What do you
Hide under your golden skirts,
Under your lacquered underwear?
Is it true that no one
Was ever able to see
Whether it was to men or to women
That your attributes belonged?"
We don't know what to do
To see Emily's crotch
You wouldn't be disappointed
No, you wouldn't be disappointed
But Mrd. Emily gives off some smells
Which rekindle the fervour
Which get to your heart
And so in the end, whether man or woman,
No one can resist
Everyone falls under the spell of Mrs. Emily
We don't know what to do
To smell Emily's crotch
A scent of cinammon
Enlivened with some camphor
But Mrs. Emily has millions of children
Described as mutant because of their atrophied sex
And Mrs. Emily is very highly paid
To carry the seed of those dampened rods
We don't know what to do
To buy one of Emily's children
Is a boy, a girl? That,
We will never know
But fashion eventually changes
And ambiguity remains
And Mrs. Emily is already out-of-fashion
The one who we used to call the Queen
Became less than nothing
She will leave to die
Waiting for the worse