This is the house of Bedlam.

    This is the man

    that lies in the house of Bedlam.

    This is the time

    of the tragic man

    that lies in the house of Bedlam.

    This is a wristwatch

    telling the time

    of the talkative man

    that lies in the house of Bedlam.

    This is a sailor

    wearing the watch

    that tells the time

    of the honored man

    that lies in the house of Bedlam.

    This is the roadstead all of board

    reached by the sailor

    wearing the watch

    that tells the time

    of the old， brave man

    that lies in the house of Bedlam.

    These are the years and the walls of the ward，

    the winds and clouds of the sea of board

    sailed by the sailor

    wearing the watch

    that tells the time

    of the cranky man

    that lies in the house of Bedlam.

    This is a Jew in a newspaper hat

    that dances weeping down the ward

    over the creaking sea of board

    beyond the sailor

    winding his watch

    that tells the time

    of the cruel man

    that lies in the house of Bedlam.

    This is a world of books gone flat.

    This is a Jew in a newspaper hat

    that dances weeping down the ward

    over the creaking sea of board

    of the batty sailor

    that winds his watch

    that tells the time

    of the busy man

    that lies in the house of Bedlam.

    This is a boy that pats the floor

    to see if the world is there， is flat，

    for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat

    that dances weeping down the ward

    waltzing the length of a weaving board

    by the silent sailor

    that hears his watch

    that ticks the time

    of the tedious man

    that lies in the house of Bedlam.

    These are the years and the walls and the door

    that shut on a boy that pats the floor

    to feel if the world is there and flat.

    This is a Jew in a newspaper hat

    that dances joyfully down the ward

    into the parting seas of board

    past the staring sailor

    that shakes his watch

    that tells the time

    of the poet， the man

    that lies in the house of Bedlam.

    This is the soldier home from the war.

    These are the years and the walls and the door

    that shut on a boy that pats the floor

    to see if the world is round or flat.

    This is a Jew in a newspaper hat

    that dances carefully down the ward，

    walking the plank of a coffin board

    with the crazy sailor

    that shows his watch

    that tells the time

    of the wretched man

    that lies in the house of Bedlam.