Now—tell me, my love, if you recall—
the moral history of what we were up to.
There were strange gatherings,
operations of great delicacy.
Maybe the source of noble such may come.
A vote would come.
If only the strange one with so few legs would come.
We are all the same, make one
like a dog after its tail.
Status, status, come home.
All the bells say: too late.
Never cadenza again of flowers, or cost,
in vain, in vain, in vain.