My life is like a music-hall, 
Where, in the impotence of rage, 
Chained by enchantment to my stall, 
I see myself upon the stage 
Dance to amuse a music-hall. 

'Tis I that smoke this cigarette, 
Lounge here, and laugh for vacancy, 
And watch the dancers turn; and yet 
It is my very self I see 
Across the cloudy cigarette. 

My very self that turns and trips, 
Painted, pathetically gay, 
An empty song upon the lips 
In make-believe of holiday: 
I, I, this thing that turns and trips! 

The light flares in the music-hall, 
The light, the sound, that weary us; 
Hour follows hour, I count them all, 
Lagging, and loud, and riotous: 
My life is like a music-hall.