He stretches his arms out and dresses with air, rings on his fingers, bells on his toes. The costume is worn out, he’s bare, except for that white mask wherever he goes. Rings on his fingers, bells with a dent: there once was a time, these would dare make songs from sounds wherever he went, his dances were new, he walked with some flair. But the costume is worn out, he’s bare, his buttocks stutter wherever he goes no gimmicks are left now to share: no rings on his fingers, or bells on his toes, except for that white mask wherever he goes.