Dalla Sua Pace


Fischblut loves singing regardless of the song,
Eighth in the line he waits to take his turn,
Yet hopes his rival will not take too long.
One eye reflects a bed and one an urn;
The torches spit and crackle as they burn.

The rapiers keep the time: tick-tick, tick-tack!
One falls; one flees. Fischblut is left alone.
Gently he turns the corpse upon its back
And finds the hand he holds a fist of stone;
The fiddles falter on a semi-tone

A patter of papouches on the stair,
Fresh from her ravisher, with her hair in pins,
She swoons. He warbles an enchanting air.
His turn has come, for Fischblut always wins;
Off-stage the Catalogue Aria begins.

Rate this post
Previous articleThe Double Looking Glass
Next articlePseudodoxia Epidemica


Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here