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And What costume shall the poor girl wear
To all tomorrow's parties
A hand-me-down dress from who knows where

And where will she go and what shall she be
When midnight comes around
She'll turn once more to Sunday's clown
And cry behind the door
Why silks and linens of yesterday's gowns
And what will she do with Thursday's rags
When Monday comes around
For Thursday's child is Sunday's clown
For whom none will go mourning
A blackened shroud, a hand-me-down gown
Of rags and silks, a costume
It's fine for one who sits and cries
For all tomorrow's parties