Does the hand that rocks the cradle  
Seek it too?  
That the return be turned  
Into a golden crown  
And worn over a head  
Always held high  

Where can that love be found  
Which seeks no return  
Except love?  

Why is it a crime, a sin  
To be ordinary, just ordinary?  
I am but an ordinary person  
With dreams and aspirations  
That yield no ‘return’, that give no ‘interest’  
But they make me what I am  
A man  
Not a god  
Which I’ll never be  
Though I was brought up by them --  
By the gods on Mount Olympus  
Where everyone has to be extraordinary -- all the time  

I shall not forsake  
My mortality --, which rests upon truth  
For apotheosis founded upon deceit  
To make a man a god  
Which no man -- being human --  
Can actually be  
But though I have left Olympus  
Olympus has not left me  

Investors  
Each one of them  
As a teetering, avaricious, greedy Jew  
Tear at my flesh  
To get back every penny  
Of the return they wish to hungrily devour  
Of the investment they tenaciously hold  
For the love they ruthlessly sold  

Ah! But in the hands that tear and scratch  
Is one which with a soothing lullaby  
Had once rocked my cradle  

Heu prisca fides!  
The heart that bleeds, the blood it poureth  
Cried out loud  
Though none understood  
I am but a man, sir  
Neither great, nor good  
Just a human, gentlemen  
Nice gentlemen  
Rich, fat, scornful gentlemen  
Just a human gentlemen  
Who needs love  
In return for love