The Prince of Bel Aire

I am, as I must remind myself in every retelling of my personal tale, the authentic Marshall Mathers. The others, by whose ministrations you may have befuddled them with myself, are mere immitations.

For this reason, I have sprung to my feet to make this admission: perhaps one of guilt. I leave that, good Sirs, to your goodly judgement. I am fully aprised of the problematic nature of this confession, and the confusion of my personal identity with those men who have attempted to come forward in my stead.

Much of the confusion appears based upon the hue, the texture: nay, Sirs! The very nature of my skin tone, itself the colour of milk. Perhaps a bit on the turned side, Im afraid. Given my habits.

I have duly noted that numerous members of the current assemblage are agape at my words. It is similar in my mind to that iconic trial in which Tommy Lee, the ruffian, was charged with failure to hold his passions resulting in mere force. A common trait of the lower classes, Im afraid, myself included.

May it be of note that I myself, while accustomed to a turn of phrase and quick with a pen as the young men holding me by force may be with a sword, do belong to the lower classes proverbial for their unparalleled brutality. There are those who thus find my verbiage revolting, despite my having been raised upon it, as I am quite sure, from the teet. I must confess confusion, as I am of the basest sort.

Of my first crime, much is known, and so I shall only say this: Andre Romelle Young has died, and his disinterred corpse is locked up in my basement. Although the bailey has sworn that the man lives, I tell you he does not! And I am to be believed!

While my second crime is the lesser, I must also state it plainly and be much absolved. Women, in particular the blooming wives of the industrial revolution, those suffragettes of whom such harsh words are oft spoken, adore my personage. Indeed, I have oft heard their declarations of love!

"Look upon him! How he caresses his own quivering loins"

"How he speaks of lust and wanton passion!"

"However, the contours of his face and of his strong, masculine form pull upon a piano string tied HERE! To my heart! And turn the very ether of our breath into music."

Certainly, I may belong in the asylum, Sirs. But did not your own parents explore similar passions behind the privacy of their closed chamber doors? Did they not engage in similar acts of wanton depravity as those with which I now find myself charged? Is not what is good enough for your own fathers, good enough for a man of such low birth as myself?

In my youth, I was certainly subjected to all manor of sexual depravity. It could not be escaped. The youth of this generation, myself included in that group, have long been exposed to a wealth of information on the subject of intercourse. Forgive me, on the discourse of intercourse.

Any child born of a simple farm hand is aware of the sexual practices of beasts, yet Thomas Greene has not been asked to appear before this court in the matter of his long-term misuse of farm and wild animals. Sirs! I understand the joys of hunting moose, but for such purposes!

I do believe that we share a sentiment in common, upon which we all must agree: that it was the declaration of womens freedoms so desperately insisted upon by the suffragettes that led to the distinct lack of hosiery in this region. And it was certainly the sudden turn against hose, and my own admitted adoration for the occasional late-night libation, that led to my -quite accidental- encounters with your wives.

Oh, there's good Andre! Alive and well, after all, and none the worse for wear, that one less criminal act might be held against me.

But I've forgotten myself again. I am, and shall remain, the authentic Marshall Mathers. I am the only Marshall Mathers of my kind, and shall accept no rewards for't. The others who have come forward with claims upon your wives have done no such thing. Twas myself. I acted alone. Here I stand, before you, seeking forgiveness or as it may be, seeking judgement.