Ballrooms.
I guess we can’t help but feel underwhelmed
Cold wet and lonesome, we’ll invite ourselves inside
I guess we all knew from the start.
Oh won’t you dance my love? Won’t you twirl?
My hands are cold, but I won’t mind
You can cut me down after tomorrow
Your summer palace in winter
This feels…
Come up here. Sit next to me
Their death dances: gowns more like jeweled skeletons
And oh! This ballroom
One two three triplets
They’ll catch me mid waltz step
I’ll be hung from the chandelier
I still know how to swing, love; I still know how to swing
And oh! This ballroom
Looking down, dressed like tea cups…
We used to spin until we fell down
Dizzy and reborn, the word didn’t stop
We used to swing. We used to really swing.
One, Two, Triplets
And I’m the vicious one?
They’ll probably catch me in St. Petersburg
And I’ll be hung in the square
I still know how to swing…
And oh, but what is music, but a bunch of notes
And screams
She’s pretty isn’t she?
See? See?
See… the end
Isn’t so terrible after all
The end…is just a single note…played over…and over…and again and again…hung from a chandelier
An outlaw would be the one to hold your hands
In front of your face: Mine the moon.
Mine the hills made from shoulder blades
Mine the chest bone percussionist
Mine…her dress like stars burnt out centuries ago
Mine. Like the end. A single note, struck twice, triplets
Left playing, from a chandelier in Russia
