I SHALL make a song of the Queen of Crete
Who had nine panthers at her feet,
Who wore bright brooches in her hair —
And her private life was her own affair.
I shall also sing in a minor note
Of the thong she wore about her throat;
Of the sailor men in the Indian sea
To bring her a bed of ivory;
Of the little negro diving girls
Who burst their drums to give her pearls;
Of the hewers of stone and the hewers of wood
And the bones on which her palace stood.
But her private life was her own affair,
And she had bright brooches in her hair
And a tyrian purple robe to wear,
And a gold-encrusted robe of state,
And a lord and a slave to decapitate,
And always a lover at the gate.
And always a thong about her throat,
(But sing it still in a minor note),
A woven thong at the lady's throat.
But whether she died in her ivory bed,
Or was garroted or lost her head,
The ancient chronicler hasn't said,
But the Queen of Crete is very dead.
The queen stood here and watched the sea
And her ship come home with ivory,
And her ship come home with laden hold,
With spice and frankincense and gold,
And the sea saw all and the sea is deep,
And the sea forgets and goes to sleep.