Little Viennese Waltz

In Vienna there are ten little girls,

a shoulder for death to cry on,

and a forest of dried pigeons.

There is a fragment of tomorrow

in the museum of winter frost.

There is a thousand-windowed dance hall.

Ay, ay, ay, ay!

Take this close-mouthed waltz.

Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz,

of itself of death, and of brandy

that dips its tail in the sea.

I love you, I love you, I love you,

with the armchair and the book of death,

down the melancholy hallway,

in the iriss darkened garret,

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(＞人＜；)