Drowning in depressive moments,
Amid wild moments of musing, while his body he's abusing,
The lady, that lady sits on the sidelines,
Watching and listening,
Still sat in a field of discontent.
Scratching  poems with her crimson pen.
His liver's not good for serving with onions,
Her pen is crimson, never scarlet,
For this lady's not a harlot.
(C) Livvi