And we expect nothing, madam. There will be no great music for us. And
what scenery there is behind the footlights will be faded and patched. The
jokes will be things that make no one laugh. And the dancers, madam, will
be like you. Tired, heavy-faced dancers, whose legs flop, whose bodies
bounce while the abominable orchestra plays.
But it is warm where we sit. We half shut our eyes and tired little dreams
come to us. And you, madam, going wearily through your steps, are the Joy
of Life. Your hoarse voice, singing indecipherable words about dearie and
honey and my jazz baby, your sagging shoulders layered with powder and
jerking to the music, the rigid, lifeless grin of your cruelly painted
lips--these things and the torn, smeared papier-mache ballroom
interior--these are the Joy of Life.
Tired little dreams, worth almost the four bits. Do you remember other
audiences, madam? As we remember other dancers? Do you recall the gay,
dark glow of ornate auditoriums, and do you remember when you were young
and there were many tomorrows? As we do? Oh, dearie, dearie, how mah heart
grows weary, waitin' for mah baby for to come back home. Very good, madam.
Although the voice is a bit cracked. Now dance.
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