I tell the stories of the world gone cold. Of the last harrowing breath of life. Of the sweet happenstance innocence of Death's footfalls.
Won't you join me for a pint of sorrow?
Won't you entertain my wish to entertain you?
Then ladies, draw your shawls across those pearly naked shoulders.
Gents, leave your bumbershoot at the door.
Put a nickel in that young doorman's hand
and come in, show up early,
nestle up a choice seat.
And please, enjoy,
The Black Matinee.
