My pretty bird, sing for me.
My, what beautiful feathers,
What beautiful fetters.
I’ll take them off you,
And your feathers too.
My bird, my worm, dove turned to dirt.
Aww, you cry. I’ll wipe your face.
The back of my hand cleans that disgrace.
Foolish man, you are nothing now.
(Put me down for five and seven)
Weep man, cry out.
What is with him?
Get the nails, get the hammer.
I lost his robe, but I got some cloth.
Cloth for dusting, good ol’ dusting.
Ashes to ashes; dust from dust.
Matthew B. Rose