The staring eyes are blank, azure,
like cloudless skies or haunting mirrors,
lemon locks tumble over ruby hearts,
bright circles swirl round luscious flowers,
graceful ladies, voluptuous dresses,
butterflies, mouths, swelling breasts,
chariots, circuses, biscuits, wings,
princes, popes, Venetian masks.

Aloïse, Aloïse, Aloïse, Aloïse.

She yearned to be a grand diva;
when war broke out she broke down.
Wasn’t the emperor her suitor?
She was locked in a clinic on her own.
They let her do the ironing;
she furtively drew her real world
with pencils, crayons, anything,
- a new universe from the mud of the old. 

Aloïse, Aloïse, Aloïse, Aloïse.

You are free if you blindly wish
to describe her technique as brutish.
The impulse was always inside her;
no choice but to be an outsider. 

Aloïse, Aloïse, Aloïse, Aloïse.

Of ghostly but sensual fantasies
she was the creation and creator;
the rawness of a chronic wound,
the romance of an operetta.
Desires for sanity, love and life,
fulfilling passions in the unconscious;
subversive images from the misfit edge,
communication of a genius.

Aloïse, Aloïse, Aloïse, Aloïse.