Burlesque Impériale

"France. L'armée. Tête de l'armée. Joséphine."
-Napoleon Bonaparte, dying words

And when the sun has set on empire,
the bubble blown and burst,
the rising tide surrendered,
and all your best turned worst...

What is left of glory
when time's grains have run?
What to make of memory
of the echo of the gun?

Beneath the flood of foaming death
you'll meet your maker soon,
proud emperor who with a breath
would leap the fullest moon.

She dances, oh she dances, with her eyes
so deep, so dark.
She is dressed in foamy moonlight
and makes desire spark.
Her garments know no slip of time,
but breathe tension and release.
She dances for the emperor;
when will her dancing cease?

With bangled arms upraised
and a deepness in her stare,
she dances, oh proud Salome!
with the ocean for her hair.

And you would claim dominion
over every little breath,
you ruler, emperor, conqueror,
who commiserates with death.

You who sleep with open eyes
and a hand upon the sword.

Her smile and her laugh,
you think to claim these too?
Still she unwinds her dance
and bares herself to you.

Why did you march to Austria
to make small the Viennese?
And why leave home for Jena
to bring the Germans to their knees?

What is your secret, emperor,
why this thirst for endless war?
What did the Enigma whisper,
whispers yet through every door?

Oh, how she watches, emperor!
How she sees you view her dance!
How you melt beneath the power
of your own reflected glance!
She has slipped her seventh veil
and she stands with painted toes;
but I wonder, is it Salome
who truly has no clothes?

For you offer all the world
to she who your gaze entranced.
And you saw only Salome
when your armies proud advanced,
for you were conquered, conqueror,
by a woman with a dance.

Beneath the flood of foaming death
you'll meet your maker soon,
proud emperor who with a breath
would leap the fullest moon.

For you were conquered, conqueror,
by a woman with a dance.