And the kisses became fewer,
The sentences became shorter,
The light-bulb was just about flickering,
The cigarette was just about ash now,
The fire on its deathbed;
Coughing its burning lungs out,
The odds became the ends,
That *****-tonk piano grew more out of tune,
Until there were no tunes at all,
The butterflies flew from our stomachs,
The wild-swans soared from our gardens,
Leaving us to sing our own swansong.

-Jamie F. Nugent