I gazed at the moon,
One Sunday at night's noon,
Reminiscing of courtships and waltzes,
Thinking "Oh, I will do something soon"
The thought slips away,
The ether of day's end springs in delightful array—!
And flicks its tendrils under the miasma of indecision.

I took tea with Miniver Cheevy
And we spoke of King Arthur
And of the immortal Casa di Medici,
Wondering, "Should we? Was this meant to be?"
And we plotted and schemed,
But what if we were seen?
Who were we to expect Verona's cloth of green?
We set aside our tea
And, hunching our shoulders,
We buried our faces
In the ever-calming water of life
And recalled thoughts of the sea.

The sea! The sea!
The waves roll into eternity.
I should have been a grain of sand,
floating in the salty breeze.
But no! How the sand would look at me!
Pockmarks and dimples,
Frailty and resolve,
War and peace,
They will see the former in me.
I should be a simple atom,
Hovering in the pall of eternity.

Circling in graceful step,
We waltzed about the floor
Around diamond chandeliers and
Golden candlesticks,
But I perceive she wanted of me...
Something, more—
Five years I had waited,
Staring at that flashing green light,
Standing with cascading twilight stars by night,
And I lost the name of action.

The fog rolled on waves through the cave,
Past paupers and their rusty mattocks,
Spreading that ethereal humor
Which leaps with gentle footing,
Lands with but a whimper, and passes onward,
Downward, ever to the depths,
And slinks down the shaft that wept—
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.
Gold, blood, and diamonds, Behold!
The fog curls around the sight
and masks beauty with night;
It rolled on waves through the streets,
Past flickering streetlamps,
Sealed cellar doors,
The cries and mourning of times past,
Singing silently of its victory.
A white trident of lightning forked through the night,
And waited for its answer.
The stars glimmered in anticipation—
The fog cuddled the streets,
Lingering amidst cellar doors,
Sculpting a shroud of eternal mist;
The streetlamps bent in their dim, perpetual cry:
"Lacrimosa dies illa...
Dona eis Requiem."

Here we go round the mushroom cloud
Mushroom cloud, mushroom cloud,
Here we go round the mushroom cloud
At the red hour of day's noon.

" Mademoiselle, do you—?
The last waltz.
The streetlamps flicker,
And burn their fuse.
The fog hides the stars,
While they weep for man.
"I will do—
"Was this—

I had not thought death had undone so many.