Soft white fibers weave my porcelain skin,
Layer of beauty upon a marred face,
Born with folds on a surface unloved,
Hidden away, a mother's disgrace.
Days and years both came and went,
I hid beneath the opera's stage,
They spoke of the ghost who could not,
Be anything less than discreet, concave.
Yet one feature clung to my soul,
Her melody swam in my music of the night,
A ballet girl's voice from the back line,
I heard it whilst in box five.
My angel, my angel with curly locks,
Whose melodious sounds rang soft and sweet,
But in one fell swoop she tore off my mask,
Leaving me bare, incomplete.
Eyes upon my visage she quivered and wept,
Into her past lover's arms of mien,
He was bound to love her when he heard her sing,
Christine, Christine, Christine.