Turn, turn, good horses of wood

Turn, turn, good horses of wood,

turn a hundred turns, turn a thousand turns,

turn often and turn always,

turn, turn to the sound of the oboes.

The red-faced child and pale mother,

the boy in black and the girl in pink,

the one pursuing and the other posing,

each getting a penny's worth of Sunday fun.

Turn, turn, horses of their hearts,

while all around your turning

squints the sly pickpocket's eye --

turn to the sound of the victorious cornet.

It is astonishing how it intoxicates you

to go around this way in a stupid circle,

plenty in the tummy and aching in the head,

very sick and having lots of fun.

Turn, wooden horses, with no need

ever to use spurs

to command you to gallop around,

turn, turn, with no hope for hay.

And hurry, horses of their souls--

hear the supper bell already,

the night that is falling and chasing the troop

of merry drinkers, famished by their thirst.

Turn, turn! The velvet sky

is slowly clothed with golden stars.

The church bell tolls sadly.

Turn, to the happy sound of drums.