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The Princess of the Stationery Store
Doesn't love me anymore;
The Queen who taught my pen to sing
Has taken off on broken wing.
All the others I admire
Have launched headfirst into the fire.
No sympathy please, I beg and prithee,
Simply one more round of whisky.
I have no stomach for this sadness,
So I'll go home and reek of gladness;
While my poor neighbors bolt and flee
The Minor Mode I'll shirk earnestly,
And when that dour mood doth come,
I'll drive it off with beat of drum;
When thought turns in upon itself,
I'll take the bottle from the shelf.
"He is jolly," they will say,
Others, "Merry!" and some "gay."
None will take me seriously,
Whilst I warble in the key of C;
From my lips will drip anecdote,
Bawdy tale, rhyme and joke.
By the glass I'll drill where only I see,
So none will guess how I loved thee.
