Three Sketches

He came along, within his heart the sailor song
That made cheap wine less bitter for everyone around
Two scientists came by and took him to their laboratory
Where fourteen judges were to examine this so strange glory
One of them said, as they were approaching:
“In seven little days, I can make a man out of him!”
The old lady who died last night in Saint Denis street
Has never thought a god older than thirty-three
Where is my hat? I’ve got red on my lips
I love this play, but I don’t think it’ll last
There’s no solution, the result is the same
We cannot but die in the end
In the wedding room a bicycle hung on a coat-hanger
On the floor here and there small boxes were scattered
The bride came by and looked at that queer encounter
While tricky kids came and set her veil on fire
One of them said, as they were running faster:
“Gosh! No more matches!
See how she scratches!”
Where is my hat? I’ve got red on my lips
I love this play, but I don’t think it’ll last
There’s no solution, the result is the same
We cannot but laugh in the end
Her finger roams on the keyboard
Beauty lies in ruined make-up
She hits the low keys and screams
As an umbrella crashes the dream.