I've been nursing a beer,
and longing to feel different,
than I am ─ indescribably other ─
knowing full well: drunk ain't what I'm after.
Contemplating the highs I've known,
and longing for a sympathetic ear,
or the simpatico warmth of breasts,
upon which my head could rest.
This song's too slow, it's making me itch ─
I don't if it was the haircut,
or the change in weather,
that landed me in this existential ditch.