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.