Come pie and knife with mask and mummer, 
come cup of tea to break our fast! 

My lover climbs high in his own high world, 
tootling his whittle and scraping his fiddle, 

while I sit floating in the middle of the floor, 
dipping bread fingers into my egg. 

Preep-preep! Prut-trut! . . . Whatever can I do? 
The plates are cold, the knives are blunt, 

the cat yawns and shows his teeth, 
dust and flies are on the shelf. 

O come, my dear, and read the news: 
your toast is cold, your tea is cold! 

I sit alone in the middle of the floor, 
I sit and eat till my hair falls out, 

bored to the bone and sick for love.