So much to dig, beneath your smile,
Nothing to dig, beneath your cry;
Almost always,
Nothing at all, beneath your cry.
Without a doubt, there’s poetry.
Then of course, there’s an interlude.
Where nothing makes sense,
but nothing needs to.
Its an interlude, after all, and its merry:
She’ll fling her tresses the other way, and call herself July.
Talk to her:
“Take a long walk through the green,
forget the hour.
Celebrate, its your day.
Don’t turn around, you’ve had enough chances to.
Abandon sadness. Let the destitute cry.
Hop, skip, jump.
He gave you his word, that he’d stand by your words, your choices, your decisions.
Check if he’s wavered. A decent man wouldn’t.
He gave you his word, he’d stand by you.
Wait till you trip. See if you fall. Chivalry, you see.
You can twirl away, but don’t look around.
You wont see the humble soldier.
He still stands by, less humbled more soldiered.
So, never you mind.
Hop, skip, jump.
Celebrate, forget the hour.”
The interlude fades,
She’ll now paint a different hue,
It’ll take him slowly;
He’ll smile, of course.
“Fresh and blind, let’s live our lives;
and raise a toast to a future date
Don’t you remember
Vienna waits for you.”
