The Last Serenade

When the pebble hits and misses,
open your wooden window shutters
and pat me on the head like your little pet.

There'll be no flowers stolen from your neatly arranged flower bed;
only a gurgle-drunk-mutter - seventeen syllables -
when your hand strokes the vomit in my hair.

This is 'I love you'.
This is what I've become
because of myself (and mostly you):

'The card has been drawn,
rigged, as the deck may have been -
my last serenade.'