Not a Mass will be sung then,
Not a Kaddish will be said,
Nothing sung, and nothing spoken,
On the day when I am dead.
But perhaps another
When the weather’s mild, serene,
My Matilde will go walking,
In Montmartre, with Pauline.
With a wreath of immortelles,
She’ll come to dress my grave,
And she’ll sigh: ‘Oh, poor man.’That moist sadness in her gaze.
A shame I’m so high up,
And I’ve no chair for my sweet,
Not a stool to offer her,
Ah, she trips with weary feet!
Don’t, my sweet, plump child,
Make your way back home on foot,
Behind the iron railings,
The cabs are waiting, look.
