I am: the de facto King of England. A very successful pirate. The man who kindly agrees to look after unwanted lands, so all those rich widows don't have to worry their pretty little heads about them. My possession is temporary, of course, only for the rest of my life and all my heirs' lives.
I want: power, power, and power. Oh, and lots of lands and money too.
I wish: that bloody Frenchwoman would just go away and leave Edward and me in peace. She promised she'd go on that year-long pilgrimage. She promised.
I hate: thinking that anyone, anywhere, might have more land and money than me.
I miss: do you think a busy, important man like me has time for such sentimental nonsense?
I fear: losing my power. Not that it could ever happen, of course. Who could oppose me? The 'Queen'? She's only concerned with her head-dresses and her illuminated manuscripts. Those sissy bishops? Never. That fool Mortimer? Couldn't organise an orgy in a brothel.
I hear: the sweet sound of all my enemies whining about me. Tough!
I wonder: if Edward's crown fits me? Hmm, why have I not tried it on yet? What an oversight.
I regret: not scheming my way into power earlier. This is fun.
I am not: going to put up with the whining of that annoying Frenchwoman any longer.
I dance: for joy every time Edward gives me more land (more and more often these days).
I sing: at the thought of 'Queen' Isabella's face when Thomas Dunheved comes back from the Pope with the dispensation for her divorce. Hates the word dispensation', does she? She'll hate it even more soon!
I cry: whenever Edward mentions Piers Gaveston. Shouldn't he have forgotten that useless parasite by now? I'm sooooo much better in every way. Still, Edward always gives me something when he makes me jealous. Edward, where are you? I'm jealous. Yup, Denbigh would make me feel much better. I hear the revenues are lovely at this time of year.
I am not always: as ruthless, greedy and nasty as everyone thinks. I gave my sister-in-law Lady de Burgh compensation for taking Gower and Usk from her. How many men would be so magnanimous? And I only imprisoned Elizabeth Comyn for one poxy year. Come on!
I made: Edward promise to never let me go.
I write: lots of letters about Gascony. There's a war going on there, and I'm directing it. (What do you mean, badly? Is there anyone else who could do it better? The king?)
I confuse: those damn Roger Mortimers. There's the one who - come on, just spit it out through clenched teeth - somehow managed to escape to France, and the one who I <shush>
I need: the Gower peninsula? Usk? Chepstow? Scribe, fetch me a map. Are there any bits of South Wales I don't own yet?
I should: withdraw some of my countless thousands from my Italian bankers. Because you never know. Doesn't hurt to be too careful. Just in case....no, it's too ridiculous. As if.
I start: to be a little concerned about 'Queen' Isabella and the Mortimer. She wouldn't...would she? Could that meekness and obedience only be an act?
I finish: first. Certainly not on a fifty-foot gallows.