| Oh the tango is done with a thin black moustache, | |
| a wide scarlet sash, black boots and a whip | |
| Or the tango is done with seafaring trash, | |
| callous and brash, fresh off the ship | |
| Or the tango is done as a dangerous dance, | |
| a treacherous step and if one should trip | |
| The frail body breaks with a snap and a twist, | |
| And a gold watch slips onto a thick tattooed wrist | |
| And a gray merchant ship turns black in the sun, | |
| as it heaves to the East when the tango is done. | |
| Butterflies mounted on fields of black velvet | |
| Neatly arranged in gleaming glass trays | |
| One-eyed Etruscans play follow-the-leader | |
| Forever around the edge of the vase | |
| The phonograph's playing an old broken record | |
| A tango and over and over it plays | |
| Over it plays | |
| Over it plays | |
| A medieval tapestry hangs like a warning, | |
| A needlepoint forest of dark green and brown. | |
| The scene is the hunt, you will notice the hunter. | |
| He takes careful aim as your eye travels down, | |
| And finally rests upon the real victim, | |
| Lying quite still in a silk dressing gown. | |
| Lying quite still at the edge of the carpet. | |
| One arm flung out for the peacocks to peck. | |
| Blending in well with the blue and green background | |
| Except for the bright scarlet sash round the neck | |
| He was a collector of beautiful strangers | |
| And life was a party right up to the end | |
| The door always opened to love and loves dangers | |
| Though dead, a lover, a stranger, a friend | |
| Butterflies mounted on fields of black velvet | |
| Neatly arranged in gleaming glass trays | |
| One-eyed Etruscans play follow-the-leader | |
| Forever around the edge of the vase | |
| The phonograph's playing an old broken record | |
| A tango and over and over it plays | |
| Over it plays |
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