O pretty young thing with your heart on a string,
Weeping alone in the dark.
As you drown in your sorrow, a few minutes I’ll borrow,
And ‘pon your future remark:
There’s no point in crying and no use in trying,
Your life’s endeavours will fail.
Whatever may be, in the end you will see,
That I will always prevail.
Which Tom, Dick or Harry will you run off and marry?
‘Til death do you part – what a lark!
In sickness or health, in poverty or wealth,
My role I’ll most faithfully hark.
And what of a job, or which bank will you rob,
To fund your miserable life?
P’rhaps dig your high-heels in and touch the glass ceiling,
Or be kept as a mother and wife.
You cannot decline the ravages of time,
The clock is also my slave.
With the years at your tail like the hare not the snail,
You’ll rot as you race to the grave.
So will you heed? Come ride my black steed,
Stop hiding behind a façade.
In the end young or old, the meek and the bold,
Will all dance the Danse Macabre.