Carla Bruni No Promises Those Dancing Days Are Gone Come, let me sing into your ear; Those dancing days are gone, All that silk and satin gear; Crouch upon a stone, Wrapping that foul body up In as foul a rag: I carry the sun in a golden cup. The moon in a silver bag. Curse as you may I sing it through; What matter if the knave That the most could pleasure you, The children that he gave, Are somewhere sleeping like a top Under a marble flag? I carry the sun in a golden cup. The moon in a silver bag. |
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