On my way back from Moscow, burning,

1. I sit alone, Emperor of France,
   

And as the squeaky wheels keep turning,

1. Think of life and high romance.
   

Remembering sweet Josephine,

1. A planted field that would not grow.
   

That lovely, sexy, Creole queen.

1. ’Twas not from lack of ploughing, though.
   

That drove me to the Habsburg girl,

1. Marie Louise, that princess bright.
   

I loved her as I love the world.

1. I take it and I make it right.
   

Her youth did make me young again.

1. A fire rekindled from the coals.
   

That flame which took away the stain,

1. From doubt that hid within men’s souls.
   

My hand tucked tight inside my shirt,

1. To scratch the age-old, mortal itch.
   

That mistress, death, with which I flirt,

1. Proclaims that life is just a bitch.
   

I think about the load I bear,

1. An army lost in Russia’s snow.
   

At least I have a newborn heir,

1. To reap the crop which I now sow.
   

Two women’s wombs I think of now.

1. The younger, fresh; the other, old.
   

An answer to the question, “How?”

1. Eludes me in the numbing cold.
   

end