Killing My Willoughby

When I kill my Willoughby
I will sing a country dance,
sweetly stealing all his breath.
I will saunter up to him,
moving oh, so rhythmically,
two-stepping towards his grave.
Quick-quick, slow, slow, quick-quick.

When they bury Willoughby,
I will wear no widow's weeds.
Lacy black is for the wife.
I will hear the eulogy
without a single tear.
Stone-faced I will recollect
the dance that brought him here.

Quick-quick, slow, slow, quick-quick.

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