If music be the food of love
and if it suits the chef,
I’ll have the sautéd semi-quavers
served with treble clef.

If you can keep your head when all
about are losing theirs,
then you’re the executioner.
You’d better say your prayers!

If I were a carpenter
and you a lady were,
I’d come and fix your summer house
then go back home to her.

If the answer, my dear friend,
in the wind is blowing
and can’t withstand a little gust,
it’s maybe not worth knowing.

And if I should die think only this
of me: despite how frisky,
dying is inevitable
from Adam to Zemlinski.