But lo, what is this I hear of you, my Sally,
This news I hear of you from your pally,
That—O! my heart is as grey as kitty litter at the news,
That you have found yourself a new man, and are no longer my Muse.
A terrible brute of a man (if I may call him so), I know him well,
So gross and ignorant, the word Neanderthal he could not spell.
"Bukowski?" I remember he once did say,
"More like Buttowski." O, O, he shall pay!
My little water dumpling he will never have,
I would sooner rather she date a chav.

But Sally, O my Sally,
Why is it that you rally,
To a brute so lewd and rude?
Was I not man enough for you?
It's true I could not perform the one time we tried to have sex,
But is that any reason to make me your ex?
It's true I'm more a man of words,
But to date that muscle-bound baboon? Oh, it is absurd!
Oh, Sally, without you, my life is an empty tally,
The days as empty as the blue sky, the color of your eyes, O, Sally.
I tried to win you back,
Like in that movie with John Cusack.
A stereo above my head,
I played that Peter Gabriel song, but O! It was like you were dead,
For not once did you lift your head,
And come to the window to show me your love, which is my life-bread.

So now, here I lie,
Too soul-beaten to even lift an eye,
And O, how I die,
Thinking of you by and by.
My Muse, My Love, My Sweet Sweet Sorrow,
Oh, if only your heart I could borrow,
So that I could make you see,
How plucked of hope my heart shall be,
If you do not come back to me.
For lo, you are a queen, and I a peasant,
But yet you treat me like a dinner of pheasant.