You have to ask:
does his grey, mournful face
result from too much thinking,
too long alone in the thistle patch
at the bottom of a lugubrious field,
not far from the hundred acre wood,
lost in his secret life?
A cracked and roughened voice
vibrates through my speakers,
sings in darkened Boogie street
of loneliness and depression;
Alexandra’s leaving, say goodbye,
then say goodbye because you’ve lost —
and love itself has gone.