Three sketches

He came along, within his heart the sailor song
 That made cheap wine less bitter for everyone around
 Two scientists came by and took him to their laboratory
 Where fourteen judges were to examine this so strange glory
 One of them said, as they were approaching:
 "In seven little days, I can make a man out of him!"
 The old lady who died last night in Saint Denis street
 Has never thought a god older than thirty-three
 Where is my hat? I've got red on my lips
 I love this play, but I don't think it'll last
 There's no solution, the result is the same
 We cannot but die in the end
 In the wedding room a bicycle hung on a coat-hanger
 On the floor here and there small boxes were scattered
 The bride came by and looked at that queer encounter
 While tricky kids came and set her veil on fire
 One of them said, as they were running faster:
 "Gosh! No more matches!
 See how she scratches!"
 Where is my hat? I've got red on my lips
 I love this play, but I don't think it'll last
 There's no solution, the result is the same
 We cannot but laugh in the end
 Her finger roams on the keyboard
 Beauty lies in ruined make-up
 She hits the low keys and screams
 As an umbrella crashes the dream.