He was full of youthful vigour, and yet still a corpse.
Only ever a corpse, a playground for worms.
He was full of lively chat, full of banter,
Full of fine sentiments, admirably expressed,
And yet still a corpse.
A pillar of society, a man about town, respectable to the last
And yet all of this just some sort of peculiar illusion,
A most peculiar sort of illusion,
The sort of peculiar illusion we see every day.
The sort of peculiar illusion we have become so very familiar with that we would not ever pass any remark upon it.
All of this is just the icing on the cake you see,
And a very fine cake it is –
The very finest, in fact.
Nothing but the very best.
You couldn’t eat it of course –
Certainly you could never eat it
But that was never the point,
Never, never, never the point –
Not at all the point.
