Give a rosy-cheeked sermon, you precocious little vermin you
Try not to notice the moon
Take your precious disturbance, the stars are unnerving you
The tragedy is always over far too soon

So sing, Pierrot, just sing me a song for a while

The magic has deserted you for another perverted youth
Unjust desserts served just for you
The silence is so cunning and there's no exile without running
And thoughts are fleeting fancies for dreaming dandies

So sing, Pierrot, just sing me a song for a while

Sing, Pierrot, Sing

A stuttering picaro singing songs from a hymn book soaked in absinthe.

Sing, Pierrot, Sing

Sterling Wormwood