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O, the minarets of Constantinople |
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Are plated gold, ivory and opal |
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Their cupolas all onion domed and light |
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And the magistrate of Constantinople |
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Has made a match; his family was hopeful |
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Their daughter would be promised a wedding night |
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But the Sultan's weary bride, she won't be wed tonight |
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Nor fall beneath a canopy to lie |
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For far across the town, her lover's lying drowned |
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And painted by the Bosporus in blue |
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And there's nothing for a broken heart to do. |
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Down the dirty streets of Constantinople |
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The beggars weep, their hands all wide open |
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Their severed leper limbs all swing and sway. |
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At a windowsill in Constantinople |
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Our Hero sighs to melodies noteful |
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And gazes on the walls that hold his love. |
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But the Sultan's weary bride, she won't be wed tonight |
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Nor fall beneath a canopy to lie |
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For far across the town, her lover now is drowned |
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And painted by the Bosporus in blue |
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And there's nothing for a broken heart to do. |
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No, there's nothing for a broken heart to do. |
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Except cry. |
