She's mrs macabrette she paints the lamps with black she spreads crysanthenums on her steps three black plumes on her hat glass buttons on her breast the cypress bows down on her step she's mrs macabrette she makes love with the cats and talks only with herself dead leaves patch up her dress the ivy climbs up her legs ...Even the birdsong looks so sad! She burns the photographs of her marriage to light another sigarette where her tears fell one day now grows the weeping willows now cuts her lips instead so nobody will be able to snatch a smile from her