The beach sand is gone, cut away
By high waves from the winter storms,
So we dance as if we feel gay,
Madly whirling, twisted forms.
The band — drum, violin, guitar —
Knows only waltzes, jigs, and rags;
Its sense of rhythm races, lags.
Some of us linger at the bar,
Leaving women alone and lost,
Heartbroken at their rejection,
While others twirl till their feet ache.
The sun sets like a golden host
In a chalice of its reflection
In the still waters of the lake.
My Human Disguise.
