"He's in his grave and on his head
I dance," the lovely dancer said,
"My feet like fireflies illume
The choking blackness of his tomb."

"Had he not died we would have wed,
And still I'd dance," the dancer said,
"To keep the creeping sterile doom
Out of the darkness of my womb."

"Our love was always ringed with dread
Of death," the lovely dancer said,
"And so I danced for his delight
And scorched the blackened core of night
With passion bright," the dancer said -

"And now I dance to earn my bread."