We sit playing in his room,
this is how it always goes,
he shakes stars out of a tune
I just puff along
He is a saturnine fellow
like Pan on bad a day or like the devil,
he doesn’t give that much away
while I pour secrets from a severed vessel.
All the songs are sad romances
suffering so much in deliverance
that I think I’d like to be that dame
who goes blind on the bridge and topples in.
Into the river, into the flood,
umbrellas of Cherbourg splattered in mud.
Too much singing in the rain
you’ll never be fit for the sun again.