An Invitation to Dinner

The scurry of tiny claws keeps time
To the drip-drip of leaden pipes above.
There's a world that awaits beneath the world
With its own sort of minor-noted Requiem.
I am its maestro, its Viennese composer
And I shall make you dance to its tune.

Dance upon a ballroom floor of broken glass
Waltzing Matilda through the bloody shards.
Barefoot and writhing, like Salome, or John
Tell me, Sir; may I have this dance?
The evening's like wine, and the music is fine
And I shall make you sing to its tune.

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye
The knife's edge calls forth the highest C.
My tempered steel is a nimble bow
Upon the Stradivaric twisting of your lips.
And dinner's at nine, and the music's like wine
And I shall make you smile to its tune.

A smile the shape and shadow you gave me.