What you’re doing isn’t wrong,
You just aren’t doing it right;
Pretending to be stoic,
While you pray that you will find
The beat you lost before,
That night, when the sky was grey
And the darkness soft.
And sometimes, when I watch
As you look for satisfaction through their eyes,
It is like watching the widowers
As they search at the end of the glass.
And when again they find nothing,
Back inside themselves
And order up just one more drink,
One more loss,
Before the next one comes.