| The fire-breathing Rebels arrive at the party early
|
| Their khaki coats are hung in the closet near the fur
|
| Asking handouts from the ladies, while they criticize the lords
|
| Boasting of the murder of the very hands that pour
|
| And the victims learn to giggle, for at least they are not bored
|
| And my shoulders had to shrug
|
| As I crawl beneath the rug
|
| And retune my piano
|
| The Hostess is enormous, she fills the room with perfume
|
| She meets the guests and smothers them with greetings
|
| And she asks «how are you» as she offers them a drink
|
| The Countess of the social grace, who never seems to blink
|
| And she promises to talk to you, if you promise not to think
|
| And my shoulders had to shrug, as I crawled beneath the rug
|
| And retuned my piano
|
| The Beauty of the hour is blazing in the present
|
| She surrounds herself with those who would surrender
|
| Floating in her flattery she’s a trophy-prize, caressed
|
| Protected by a pretty face, sometimes cursed, sometimes blessed
|
| And she’s staring down their desires, while they’re staring down her dress
|
| And my shoulders had to shrug
|
| As I crawl beneath the rug
|
| And retune my piano
|
| The egos shine like lightbulbs, so bright you cannot see them
|
| Blind each other blinder than a sandbox
|
| All the fury of an argument, holding back their yawns
|
| A challenge shakes the chandliers, the selfish swords are drawn
|
| To the loser go the hangups, to the victor go the hangers on
|
| And my shoulders had to shrug
|
| As I crawl beneath the rug
|
| And retune my piano
|
| They travel to the table, the host is served for supper
|
| And they pass each other down for salt and pepper
|
| And the conversation sparkles as their wits are dipped in wine
|
| Dinosaurs on a diet, on each other they will dine
|
| Then they pick their teeth and they squelch a belch saying:
|
| «Darling you tasted divine.»
|
| And my shoulders had to shrug
|
| As I crawl beneath the rug
|
| And retune my piano
|
| The Wallflower is waiting, she hides behind composure
|
| She’d love to dance and prays that no one asks her
|
| Then she steals a glance at lovers while her fingers tease her hair
|
| And she marvels at the confidence of those who hide their fears
|
| Then her eyes are closed as she rides away with a foreign legionaire
|
| And my shoulders had to shrug
|
| As I crawl beneath the rug
|
| And retune my piano
|
| Romeo is reeling, counting notches on his thighbone
|
| Searching for one hundred and eleven
|
| And he’s charming as a cherub as he leads you to his web
|
| Seducing queens and gypsy girls in the boudoir of his head
|
| Then he wraps himself with a tablecloth and pretends he is a bed
|
| And my shoulders had to shrug
|
| As I crawl beneath the rug
|
| And retune my piano
|
| The party must be over, even the Losers are leaving
|
| But just one doubt is nagging at my caustic mind:
|
| So I snuck up close behind me and I gave myself a kiss
|
| And I led myself to the mirror to expose what I had missed
|
| There I saw a laughing maniac who was writing songs like this
|
| And my shoulders had to shrug
|
| As I crawl beneath the rug
|
| And retune my piano |