One Sunday night, I fell inlove,
Her beauty saved me from despair.
Between kisses, she said; "I see myself in you."
I kissed her back, replied; "It's probably the hair."
She doesn't love me back, like nobody ever will,
So I crawl back to my bed in familiar Quarantine.
There, I'll sleep forever and go nowhere,
For it's time to accept that the grass is never green.