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