There cannot be, the reasons must be very clear
a celebration on the day that once was mine,
instead I'll shed perhaps a solitary tear
and have a taste for you of Loganberry wine.
I shall not weep as all my energy is spent,
but in the darkness of my soul's forlorn embrace
let us together just remember that last Lent.
(Perhaps they'll let you wear that flush upon your face).
I do not know when they'll be calling me upstairs,
but I just know that you'll be standing at that gate,
I shall be bearing in my satchel Lindt Eclairs,
and we might feast on them for hours, tête-à-tête.