Here’s a song about absolutely nothing:
It’s not about me,
Not about anyone else;
Not about love.
Not about being young,
Not about anything else either.
It came to me while I was asleep,
Riding along on my horse.
I don’t know exactly when I was born.
I’m not happy,
I’m not angry.
I’m not a stranger here…
I don’t belong here.
I can’t help being like this,
I was made like it by a fairy upon a mountaintop.
I don’t know if I’m asleep or awake
Unless someone tells me.
My heart’s almost broken,
It’s so sad…
And all this doesn’t matter a mouse to me.
I swear it, by St. Martial!
I love someone… I don’t know who she is
Because I’ve never seen her;
She hasn’t done anything to please me or to upset me
And I don’t care.
I’ve never seen her, but I love her truly.
She is not yet done what she should to me, or what she shouldn’t.
When I don’t see her, then I’m happy.
She’s not worth a cock to me
Because I know someone who’s gentler and prettier,
And richer as well…
I don’t know where she lives,
Whether up in the heights or down in the fields.
I daren’t tell you the wrongs she does me,
It hurts me too much
And it hurts me to stay here,
So I’m leaving!
I’ve made the poem. I don’t know what’s it about.
I’m going to send it to someone
Who’ll send it with someone else,
To someone over in Anjou:
Perhaps he’ll be able to send me the key from his little box
and unravel this riddle.
Guillaume IX, Duke of Aquitaine and VIIth Count of Poitiers
(22 October 1071 – 11 February 1127)
I recently wrote a poem about nothing, then realised what I had, in some form plagarised, although my poem is not as funny as this one.