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The man in 119 takes his tea all alone |
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Mornings we all rise to wireless Verdi cries |
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I'm hearing opera through the door |
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The souls of men and women, impassioned all |
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Their voices climb and fall, battle trumpets call |
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I fill the bath and climb inside, singing |
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He will not touch their pastry |
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But every day they bring him more |
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Gold from the breakfast tray, I steal them all away |
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And then go, eat them on the shore |
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I draw a jackal-headed woman in the sand |
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Sing of a lover's fate sealed by jealous hate |
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And wash my hand in the sea with just three days more |
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I'd have just about learned the entire score to Aida |
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Holidays must end as you know |
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All is memory taken home with me |
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The opera, the stolen tea, the sand drawing |
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The verging sea all years ago |
