There is a false face behind a false breast
That beats out a tune that was never its own
And the thrum of the notes in the din of the night
Is a scourge to the dreams it is shown.

Wherefore sits he so melancholy? By
baked glass lines of chairs, all written up for
the task which he cannot but perform. Waits
with a cruel mouth; a crueler waist that
hoists him from the waste with watermarked wells
beneath his eyes, his staring eyes. Up there,
how many faces press against him? In
the well of his neck, the silver skin holds
back the mouth for all it might be worth,
to be seen by His appreciative teeth.

There is a false stage where stands a false man
That speaks with a passion that never was known
And the beck and the cry that is elsewhere not heard
Is a tear for the man that has flown.