White is the sweatshirt, and red is the sash, I’m picking the poppies beginning to flush. Deep is the sound of the choral song, I know she is there now, singing along. She cried, I remember, on ent’ring the hut: “You’re handsome, but you are not after my heart. The wind is enflaming the rings of your curls, I’ve given my brush to somebody else”. I know she dislikes me and makes me feel small: I danced less than others and drank least of all. I stood by the wall and was humble and sad, while they were drunk and singing, like mad. He’s lucky, he’s one of those brazen men, his beard would stick to her neck now and then. And joining the circle of dancers, with grace, she burst out laughing straight in my face. White is the sweatshirt, and red is the sash, I’m picking the poppies beginning to flush. Her heart, like a poppy, is blooming along, it isn’t for me that she’s singing the song.