| O, the minarets of Constantinople
|
| Are plated gold, ivory and opal
|
| Their cupolas all onion domed and light
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| And the magistrate of Constantinople
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| Has made a match; |
| his family was hopeful
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| Their daughter would be promised a wedding night
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| But the Sultan’s weary bride, she won’t be wed tonight
|
| Nor fall beneath a canopy to lie
|
| For far across the town, her lover’s lying drowned
|
| And painted by the Bosporus in blue
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| And there’s nothing for a broken heart to do
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| Down the dirty streets of Constantinople
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| The beggars weep, their hands all wide open
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| Their severed leper limbs all swing and sway
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| At a windowsill in Constantinople
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| Our Hero sighs to melodies noteful
|
| And gazes on the walls that hold his love
|
| But the Sultan’s weary bride, she won’t be wed tonight
|
| Nor fall beneath a canopy to lie
|
| For far across the town, her lover now is drowned
|
| And painted by the Bosporus in blue
|
| And there’s nothing for a broken heart to do
|
| No, there’s nothing for a broken heart to do
|
| Except cry |