March 18, 1987

Left on an island
without love
Lonely, with a newspaper from March
and an artificial rose
Given a week without food
A life sentence

Oh the ships they pass by
But they think you love it there
Alone, but a rose and a paper that's old
And a monkey perched high in a tree

The rose stays forever the same
The paper yellows but never ages
The monkey stays high up in his tree
But you wrinkle, and age, and waste away