Everyone knows
Of the lonely boy
Who sang
The whistling tunes.
Who wasted away
All of his days
Sitting on
The broken stoop.

Who'd gather
The loveliest of flowers
And tore the petals asunder.
Contemplating,
For hours
The feelings of another.

While his pocket watch
Yelled
Tick and tock,
Cheering on
The faint church bell's knock
Pounding through
The rusted locks
He heard the birds
Begin to whisper and mock . . .
In rhymes and rhythms
That he understood not.

Struggling
As the new tune played.
Silently sobbing
As his message bayed
From his throat
Onto the ground
Out of control,
It did resound.

The people heard
Of his newfound cries
And the shattered tune
Hidden deep inside.
They saw the change
And thought it strange
Kept away
More than ever
As he sang--

"She loves me, She loves me not.
She adores me, She wants me to rot.
She wants me, . . . to die on the spot.
She loves me, she loves me not.

She loves me, but not a lot.
She's obsessed with me, yet her eyes show naught.
She could kiss me, but her lips are locked.
She loves me, She loves me not.

She's lonely, yet she seems so proud.
She's sweet to me, yet she shows her nasty scowl.
She has gone from me, yet she's right here now.
She's wandering in a distant cloud.

So she loves me, she loves me not.
Still searching, for what she lost.
She sings melodies, as she tears me apart.
She has left me, though she remains in my heart."