All right, take her away. What did she sing? What was
the song that mumbled itself through the laughter and the rain of pennies?
* * * * *
Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Sghsgbrszsg will endeavor to entertain you with
a ballad for your amusement. That's fine. After three a.m. outside. Cold
and dark. But nothing cold or dark about us. We're just getting started.
Bring 'em out. Bring out the ballad singer.
Ah, there's a lad for you. His shoes all shined and a clean collar on and
his face carefully shaved at home. But his hands wouldn't wash clean. The
shop grime lingers on his hands and in his broken nails. But his eyes are
blue and he's going to sing. The boys at the shop know his songs. The noon
hour knows them.
But his voice sounds different here under the beating tungstens. It
quavers. Something about Ireland. A little bit of heaven. He can't sing.
If he was in his shirt sleeves and the collar was off and his face didn't
hurt from the dull safety razor blade--it would sound better. But--pennies
for him. Hit the singing boy in the eye and win the hand-painted cazaza.
"A little bit of heaven called Ireland," is what he's singing. And the
noises start. The pennies and nickels rain.
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