Ce n'est pas Pierrot en herbe

Non plus que Pierrot en gerbe,

C'est Pierrot, Pierrot, Pierrot.

Pierrot gamin, Pierrot gosse,

Le cerneau hors de la cosse,

C'est Pierrot, Pierrot, Pierrot !


Bien qu'un rien plus haut qu'un mètre,

Le mignon drôle sait mettre

Dans ses yeux l'éclair d'acier

Qui sied au subtil génie

De sa malice infinie

De poète-grimacier.


Lèvres rouge-de-blessure

Où sommeille la luxure,

Face pâle aux rictus fins,

Longue, très accentuée,

Qu'on dirait habituée

À contempler toutes fins,


Corps fluet et non pas maigre,

Voix de fille et non pas aigre,

Corps d'éphèbe en tout petit,

Voix de tête, corps en fête,

Créature toujours prête

À soûler chaque appétit.


Va, frère, va, camarade,

Fais le diable, bats l'estrade

Dans ton rêve et sur Paris

Et par le monde, et sois l'âme

Vile, haute, noble, infâme

De nos innocents esprits !


Grandis, car c'est la coutume,

Cube ta riche amertume,

Exagère ta gaieté,

Caricature, auréole,

La grimace et le symbole

De notre simplicité !

On tabletops and in bathroom stalls, his audience he does
astound
A dazzling show for one and all, his talents know no
bound.

They call him Pierrot
He himself he does not know.

Toss him your rotted fruit; he graciously will
eat
Sickness but paltry price; to grovel at your
feet.

They call him Pierrot
He himself wish it were not so.


For your gold and silver, earnestly not he
plead
To bathe solely in your veneration, gladly he’d
bleed.

They call him Pierrot
He himself pulled undertow.


A shield of alabaster betrays a scarlet
face
A gleaming retort to innermost dis-
grace.

They call him Pierrot
He himself no arrow nor bow.

His grossest corruption, that which he does
imbibe
For one more day, to lucifer, he offers a
bribe.

They call him Pierrot
He himself fodder for the crow.

In the Abby his copper chalice he does
fill
Desperate panhandler imploring of you good
will.

They call him Pierrot
He himself unrisen dough.


Oh to drink and guzzle your sympathy, such
chance
For taste of your tepid affection, evermore he’ll
dance.

They call him Pierrot
He himself a blemish in snow.


But when the poison seeps from his
head
And those of conscience sleep soundly in
bed
He will look upon the mirror with bated
breath
And to the man he recognises not wish for
death

The call him Pierrot
He himself pleads you: ‘Don’t go’.

Pierrot stands in the garden,
Beneath a waning moon,
And on his lute he fashions
A fragile silver tune.
Pierrot plays in the garden,
He thinks he plays for me,
But I am quite forgotten
Under the cherry tree.
Pierrot plays in the garden,
And all the roses know,
That Pierrot loves his music,—
But I love Pierrot.