A sad grey dawning, this; a sad grey cloud Bemists the morning’s eye with doleful mirk; And under dreary treetops’ drizzling shroud, Bedraggled crows in lonely murders lurk. The whiskey's all but spent, the wine is lost; The beer-fen on the bare cold floorboards molders; The fridge holds half a jar of apple-sauce; The last butt in the brimming ashtray smolders. My love is gone. My love is gone. Dear Christ, What mortal words are worse? My love is gone. What burden would I not have borne, what price, Before I saw this bleak December dawn? The gelid sky pours out its ancient tears— The grim detritus of a dying year.
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