Three Sketches

He came along, within his heart the sailor song

That made cheap wine less bitter for everyone around

Two scientists came by and took him to their laboratory

Where fourteen judges were to examine this so strange glory

One of them said, as they were approaching:

"In seven little days, I can make a man out of him!"

The old lady who died last night in Saint Denis street

Has never thought a god older than thirty-three

Where is my hat? I've got red on my lips

I love this play, but I don't think it'll last

There's no solution, the result is the same

We cannot but die in the end

In the wedding room a bicycle hung on a coat-hanger

On the floor hereand there small boxes were scattered

The bride came by and looked at that queer encounter

While tricky kids came and set her veil on fire

One of them said, as they were running faster:

"Gosh! No more matches!

See how she scratches!"

Where is my hat? I've got red on my lips

I love this play, but I don't think it'll last

There's no solution, the result is the same

We cannot but laugh in the end

Her finger roams on the keyboard

Beauty lies in ruined make-up

She hits the low keys and screams

As an umbrella crashes the dream.