A Pome About My Tragic Constant Lack of Memory

[chaletian]

O Mnemosyne I must confess
That every day brings less and less
The mem'ries that o'er time I stored

Is there something I have done?
Some fleeting prize I have not won?
Of my sweet past did you grow bored?

Pray tell me, muse, why you decree
That I be shorn of memory?
That no soft whisper strike a chord?

Cuz frankly, darling, I am fucked
Out of my head all thoughts are plucked
I can't remember anything
And of this woe I cannot sing
And Katie's getting really mad
And I am getting really sad