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He's got a little locket picture of the maids' commission. |
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With bees blowing through the bushes, |
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He makes the first incision, |
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And these dolls race through the garden. |
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A chef on boneless roses opens the bandages, |
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And this empty house discloses |
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What the guest's dreams are hiding, |
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As he rests above the arbor with little flowers |
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Crying for all their heads he's harbored. |
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And the then midnight market stalls fill with up chloroform, |
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The face within his locket mouths "take off your uniform." |
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They kiss him before parting, |
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Then melt into his pockets. |
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He's trampling through the garden and he's got a little locket. |
