I'm living in squalor.
It'll be summer again soon,
And I wish that I could call her,
But I've gone from prince to pauper.
With every silently warm night,
Her memory fades red,
Like a doppler.

I can't write poetry anymore.
I'm not much pride to swallow.
I'm a mended heart gone sour,
A paper maché shell, now hollow.

She can't really be blamed.
Lovelessly alone with my bones,
Blood long gone, long drained,
That fault is my own.

I can't really be blamed.
Now she's all alone,
With our bones.
That fault is her own.

Your constructive corruption,
Wrapped me in, like a soft cocoon.
And with every day without prosper,
Your memory grows blue,
Like a doppler.