Post by willowdown on Nov 19, 2010 6:08:41 GMT -5
Dance for a penny beneath the moon
where shadows waltz with statues
and the purple-tressed hamadryads of the Wood
flirt with fauns and centaurs.
Dance for tuppence beneath the stars
in cathedrals of nodding corn
over which the hungry owls swoop
and bats spread their nets of rumour.
Dance for thrippence beneath the sea
and bring my drowned true love to me
- look at how her pearly teeth gleam,
her coral lips and eyes like caves
wherein the sleeping beasts of beauty dream.
Dance for fourpence on marionette strings,
stamp your hooves and beat your wings!
Between the Earth and Heaven's Gate
demented gods decide men's fate.
Dance for a fivepenny tumbler of gin
and toast the little man within
- toast him in the flames of Hell
and drown him in a sheer, smooth well...
Dance for a silver sixpence, my love,
my sweetheart, my bruiser,
my proud turtle-dove.
If we dance for an hour
we'll dance the whole day
and then wise Elijah will give us our pay.
We'll out-dance Old Chaos
and out-dance the dawn:
we'll dance on the doorstep
where maids leave abortions
and heroes are born;
we'll dance to the tune
of Old Nick's tambourine
on the desolate heath
where the world's cold winds keen
and when we've done dancing
for sixpence or less,
we'll dance for a shilling
for a shilling is best!
where shadows waltz with statues
and the purple-tressed hamadryads of the Wood
flirt with fauns and centaurs.
Dance for tuppence beneath the stars
in cathedrals of nodding corn
over which the hungry owls swoop
and bats spread their nets of rumour.
Dance for thrippence beneath the sea
and bring my drowned true love to me
- look at how her pearly teeth gleam,
her coral lips and eyes like caves
wherein the sleeping beasts of beauty dream.
Dance for fourpence on marionette strings,
stamp your hooves and beat your wings!
Between the Earth and Heaven's Gate
demented gods decide men's fate.
Dance for a fivepenny tumbler of gin
and toast the little man within
- toast him in the flames of Hell
and drown him in a sheer, smooth well...
Dance for a silver sixpence, my love,
my sweetheart, my bruiser,
my proud turtle-dove.
If we dance for an hour
we'll dance the whole day
and then wise Elijah will give us our pay.
We'll out-dance Old Chaos
and out-dance the dawn:
we'll dance on the doorstep
where maids leave abortions
and heroes are born;
we'll dance to the tune
of Old Nick's tambourine
on the desolate heath
where the world's cold winds keen
and when we've done dancing
for sixpence or less,
we'll dance for a shilling
for a shilling is best!
