It was the morn And palms were waved And the brass was played Then the coroner came In his limpid shoes. The palms were played For the beau of illusions. The termagent fans Of his orange days Fell, famous and flat, And folded him round, Folded and fell And the brass grew cold And the coroner's hand Dismissed the band. It was the coroner Poured this elixir Into the ground, And a shabby man, An eye too sleek, And a biscuit cheek. And the coroner bent Over the palms. The elysium lay In a parlor of day. |