He walked into his beloved's room
And swept the floor with a broom,
A broom made of bone and hair
And with the same he constructed a chair.
This chair he sat upon and he cried
Wondering when his sanity had died
He rose to his feet and paced the floor
He knew that he could go on no more.
So he took the blade that he used to ****
And remembered that there was no more thrill;
Across his wrists he did cut
And then, once again, he cursed the ****.
"My love," he whimpered as life dripped away,
"You've betrayed my trust for the very last day..."
Then he slumped dead into that chair
Made of bone, cushioned with hair.