| 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
|
| 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
|
| 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 |