Set out to face the world alone;
And, in a garret near the sky,
Had scarce a crust to call our own,
But many a banquet, Barmecide;
And many a dream of hope divine,
Lie buried in the moaning tide,
That drowns the past, old pipe of mine!
But prosing isn't quite the thing,
And so, I guess, I'll give it up:
Just wait a moment while I sing;