They pass like all fugitive things—
They fade and they pass, but lo!
He stands at the kerb and sings.
All the magic that Music brings
Is lost when he mangles it so—
Ah me, if I had but wings!
But the worst is a thought that stings!
There is nothing at hand to throw!
He stands at the kerb and sings—
Ah me, if I had but wings!