And what costume shall the poor girl wearnTo all tomorrow's partiesnA hand-me-down dress from who knows wherenTo all tomorrow's partiesnnAnd where will she go and what shall she donWhen midnight comes aroundnShe'll turn once more to Sunday's gownnAnd cry behind the doornnAnd what costume shall the poor girl wearnTo all tomorrow's partiesnWhy silks and plumes of yesterday's gownsnTo all tomorrow's partiesnnAnd what shall she do with Thursday's ragsnWhen Monday comes aroundnShe'll turn once more to Sunday's clownnAnd cry behind the doornnAnd what costume shall the poor girl wearnTo all tomorrow's partiesnFor Thursday's child is Sunday's clownnFor whom none will go mourningnnA blackened shroud, a hand-me-down gownnOf rags and silks, a costumenFit for one who sits and criesnFor all tomorrow's parties