In what costume shall
the poor girl wear
To all
tomorrow's parties
A hand-me-down dress
from who knows where
To all
tomorrow's parties
And where will she go,
and what shall she do
When midnight
comes around
She'll turn once
more to Sunday's clown
and cry behind the door
And what costume
shall the poor girl wear
To all
tomorrow's parties
Why silks and linens
of yesterday's gowns
To all
tomorrow's parties
And what will she do
with Thursday's rags
When Monday
comes around
She'll turn once more
to Sunday's clown and
cry behind the door
And what costume shall
the poor girl wear
To all
tomorrow's parties
For Thursday's child
is Sunday's clown
For whom none
will go mourning
A blackened shroud
A hand-me-down gown
Of rags and silks,
a costume
Fit for one who
sits and cries
For all
tomorrow's parties
And what costume shall
the poor girl wear
To all
tomorrow's parties
A hand-me-down dress
from who knows where
For all
tomorrow's parties
For Thursday's child
is Sunday's clown
For whom none
will go mourning
Fit for one who
sits and cries
To all
tomorrow's parties
A blackened shroud
A hand-me-down gown
Of rags and silks,
a costume
Fit for one who
sits and cries
For all
tomorrow's parties
For all
tomorrow's parties
For all
tomorrow's parties
For all
tomorrow's parties