Eh, lez zan, arrêtez dé vous moquer dé mwa. Enough iz enough. De toute façon, I will kill a mocking bird, a cacatoès to be precise, wiz my witty dialogues and my mimi and my beautiful costume of brinjal colour.

Why are you laughing, you femel lisien and stray dogs? As Sexpire once said, les siens aboient la calèche cassée passe. Franco franco tout, I don’t see why you keep making fun of me. I am not like zoz politisiens who build a castle in Ispain, like Francisco François.

You keep making fun of my François? Of my Engliss? And my maths as well? 10 sous X 1.3 million = 13 million, not trou you say? You misinterprete my propos. Ze media like to take nice wiz me, same on zem.

But I have crocodile skin me. I am like a bred sonz in ze katchu, a nénuphar in ze garden of Pamplemousses, you vile attacks will slip of me like a drop of rain in the summer breeze. If my mentor Sexpire had not been killed by my sayings, he would have said: “Ravi, do not be afraid of the tempest, you are a cyclone class 4.”

No, no, I will not remain silent, I will not sut my mouse. I have sings to say and my voice will be heard, weazer you like it or not. I will end wiz some more Sexpire: “The empty vessel makes ze loudest sound and I am a drom vid.”