Muse of my heart, lover of grand chateaux,
When January unleashes storm and sleet,
Through the black dreary evenings when it snows,
Will you have coals to warm your violet feet ?

With gleaming starlight that has pierced the blinds
Will you reanimate your shoulder's cold Marble?
Your palate dry, your purse unlined,
From vaults of azure will you harvest gold !

To earn your evening bread you'll have to swing
The censer like a choirboy, and sing
Te Deums of which you don't believe a word,

Or, starving clown, show off your charms, your smile
Wet with tears that none see, to beguile
And cheer the sick spleen of the vulgar herd.