I hear that since you left me
Things go from bad to worse,
That the Good Lord, quite rightly,
Has set a signal curse
On you, your house and love.
(I learn, moreover, he
Proves twive as screwed-up, selfish
And sodden, dear as me.)
They say your days are tasteless,
Flattened, disjointed, thinned.
Across the waste my absence,
Loves's skeleton, has grinned.
Perfect. I trust my sources
Of information are sound?
Or is it just some worthless rumour
I've been spreading round?
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