Marissa McGowan, Kevin David Thomas, Stephan R. Buntrock, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Angela Lansbury & Jayne Paterson -
A Little Night Music
The Sun Won't Set [Act Two]
The sun sits low
Diffusing its usual glow
Five o'clock
Twilight
Vespers sound
And it's six o'clock
Twilight
All around
But the sun sits low
As low as it's going to go
Eight o'clock
Twilight
How enthralling
It's nine o'clock
Twilight
Slowly crawling towards
Ten o'clock
Twilight
Crickets calling
The vespers ring
The nightingale's waiting to sing
The rest of us wait on a string
Perpetual sunset
Is rather an unsettling thing
To lose a lover
Or even a husband or two
During the course of one's life
Can be vexing
But to lose one's teeth is a catastrophe
Bear that in mind, child
As you chomp so recklessly into that ginger snap
Very well. grandmother
More champagne, Frid
One bottle the less of the Mumms '87 will not
I hope
Diminish the hilarity at my wake
The sun won't set
It's fruitless to hope or to fret
It's dark as it's going to get
The hands on the clock turn
But don't sing a nocturne just yet
They're coming!
Nonsense
But they are!
Impossible
No guest with the slightest grasp of what is seemly
Would arrive before 5:15 on a Friday afternoon
Good God, you're right!
Frid!
We cannot be caught squating on the ground
Like bohemians
Diffusing its usual glow
Five o'clock
Twilight
Vespers sound
And it's six o'clock
Twilight
All around
But the sun sits low
As low as it's going to go
Eight o'clock
Twilight
How enthralling
It's nine o'clock
Twilight
Slowly crawling towards
Ten o'clock
Twilight
Crickets calling
The vespers ring
The nightingale's waiting to sing
The rest of us wait on a string
Perpetual sunset
Is rather an unsettling thing
To lose a lover
Or even a husband or two
During the course of one's life
Can be vexing
But to lose one's teeth is a catastrophe
Bear that in mind, child
As you chomp so recklessly into that ginger snap
Very well. grandmother
More champagne, Frid
One bottle the less of the Mumms '87 will not
I hope
Diminish the hilarity at my wake
The sun won't set
It's fruitless to hope or to fret
It's dark as it's going to get
The hands on the clock turn
But don't sing a nocturne just yet
They're coming!
Nonsense
But they are!
Impossible
No guest with the slightest grasp of what is seemly
Would arrive before 5:15 on a Friday afternoon
Good God, you're right!
Frid!
We cannot be caught squating on the ground
Like bohemians
Credits
Writer(s): Stephen Sondheim
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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