O the minarets of Constantinople

Are plated gold, ivory, and opal

Their cupolas all onion domed and light.



And the magistrate of Constantinople

Has made a match; his family was hopeful

Their daughter would be promised a wedding night.



But the Sultan's weary bride, she won't be wed tonight

Nor fall beneath a canopy to lie

For far across the town, her lover's lying drowned

And painted by the Bosporus in blue

And there's nothing for a broken heart to do.



Down the dirty streets of Constantinople

The beggars weep, their hands all wide open

Their severed leper limbs all swing and sway.



At a windowsill in Constantinople

Our Hero sighs to melodies noteful

And gazes on the walls that hold his love.



But the Sultan's weary bride, she won't be wed tonight

Nor fall beneath a canopy to lie

For far across the town, her lover now is drowned

And painted by the Bosporus in blue

And there's nothing for a broken heart to do.

No, there's nothing for a broken heart to do.

Except cry.