There's a golden hocus-pocus

Where the buried people eat,

For the air is full of crocus

Blowing down to William Street

Oh, behold the Roman candles

Of the window-boxes burst,

As the fairies tap their sandals

On the Alps of Darlinghurst!

Everywhere, everywhere, flowers are fleeting in the air,

Lovers greeting, poets meeting, flowers are fleeting everywhere.

Where the stars are lit by Neon,

Where the fried potato fumes,

And the ghost of Mr. Villon

Still inhabits single rooms,

And the girls lean out from heaven

Over lightwells, thumping mops,

While the gent in 57

Cooks his pound of mutton chops-

Even there, even there, flowers are floating in the air;

Eyes are gloating, boarders doting, flowers are floating even there.