Gather round, handmaidens of sorrow.
Sound the flute
Blow the horn
Pluck the lute
Forward, mourn!
Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah
Ah, ah
All Crete was at her feet
All Thrace was in her thrall
All Sparta loved her sweetness and gall
And Spain
And Greece
And Egypt
And Syria
And Mesopotamia
Oh, why should such a blossom fall?
Speak the spells
Strum the lyre
Toll the bells
Fill the pyre
I don't know about you, but I've suffered enough.
On behalf of the body, I'd like to thank you for a lovely funeral.
Ah, ah
All Crete was at her feet
But I shall weep no more
I'll find my consolation as before
Among the simple pleasures of war
