In the rain he walks, dejected.
— What a tired little soul! —
Keeps the air of one rejected
As his only living goal.
Why, a butterfly would irk him
If it landed on his shoe,
And I bet no-one could work him
Though he hasn't much to do.
In his pretty melancholy
He will loiter in the park
Where the gentlemen will call; he
Mutters Shakespeare in the dark,
Making it his lame ambition
Just to wear a lover thin —
As he's failed his lover's mission,
Why should anyone else win?
So he walks, pretentious *****,
All a-trimmed in mourning black
And he drinks his bitter coffee
Then he goes to hit the sack.
He pretends there's some great novel
That he's keeping in his mind
So he locks up in his hovel,
Where he takes his ****** time.
He will play chess solitary
As he's drowning in his spleen,
Saying how he'll never marry
As he captures his own queen —
Why, a kiss would surely burn him,
If someone would have the gall!
And to love I couldn't turn him
If he's ever loved at all.