I heard you humming some old lonesome song
And saw the distant yearning in your eyes;
I knew you would be gone before too long
For I have come to know, and realize
That you’ve a heart that never seems to fit,
And you can love, but only for a bit.

The tribe of yearners: your inheritance;
The wanderers and seekers after love –
Accused of flimsiness or decadence,
Your must reach past, beyond, or just above
Whatever or whoever might be there
For newer climes, or maybe fresher air —

The comedy – you say it isn’t me –
The warning zone – for soon I’ll be alone.