Why should I try to mimic saint
while impish thoughts prevail,
winning resentment and complaint
when saintly ventures fail?

Woman may smile at joke and jape
but much prefers to sell
to him that is (or best can ape)
the Lucifer from hell.

In awe she'll stand back to admire
he who for love would starve,
but then she'll dance round the primal fire
and a devil will melt her love.

Deep in her secret, judging eyes
the martyr looks a fool;
there, alone, unseen, he dies
and there's none to judge it cruel.

But howsoever she may breed
with Satan or Don Juan,
still must I pledge like old Siegfried
to Brynnhild von Wotan.

And if that means I must wear my bells
like a motley mistigris
to win the pity of mademoiselles,
then thus I'll perform to thee.

Man must conceal the tears he seeps
lest he proves himself the boy,
but a clown can whistle while he weeps,
cry as he somersaults and leaps,
milling the childlike smiles he reaps,
filling the tent with joy.