The Moon and Lady Death

The moon has marble teeth How old and sad she looks! There is a dry river There is a hill without grass There is a dead oak tree Near a dry river.

Lady Death, wrinkled, Goes looking for custom At the heels of a crowd Of tenuous phantoms. Near the dead oak tree Near the dry river There is a fair without trumpets And tents made of shadow.

She sells them dry paint Made of wax and torture, Wicked and twisted Like a witch in a story. There is a dry river There is a hill without grass There is a dead oak tree Near a dry river.

The moon Is tossing money Down through the black air. Near the dead oak tree Near the dry river There is a fair without trumpets And tents made of shadow.