Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O bride of midnight!
favor us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our tribal dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room.
Feathered and be-furbelowed
she plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with an entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready for me,
give up the ghosts and take a final bow.
Welcome from then 'til now.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O Bride of Midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our daily dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room,
feathered and be-furbelowed
and plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with her entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying,
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready.
I leave the night and take a final bow,
grateful for the here and now.
Pre-dawn, and the street-lamp sputters,
merchants come to raise their shutters,
regard the fading moon, and mutter,
'yet another day.'
Begone, O bride of midnight!
favour us with not another glance,
put your spells away,
you'll not lead us in our tribal dance.
Behold a wrinkled substitute,
a crone who likes to think that she's a queen;
with as much grace as she can muster,
she flusters, fidgets, lonely in her room.
Feathered and be-furbelowed
she plays with her decolletage,
she's mutton dressed as lamb.
The smell of stale tobacco
and a whiff of old perfume,
no longer with an entourage
she dances out of rhythm to the tango,
rusty and unconstituted,
wraith-like, a phantom in her tomb.
At twenty past I'm home at last,
the brass plate spells my name;
come inside!
familiar and gratifying,
slippers by my bed still lying,
dressing gown and cap are crying
here abide!
The sheets are turned and ready for me,
give up the ghosts and take a final bow.
Welcome from then 'til now.
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