Outside, the lights glow with vibrant feel,
a delighting sight to see,
He smiles and laughs and beams and grins,
for others, not for me,
His exuberant little jubilee
all others do adore,
Yet his gleeful little self
shades one with mighty sore.
That which the inside holds for me,
doth have a listless streak.
Corrupted by abandonment,
his joyless face is meek.
Although a cynic by delight,
he doth an interest show,
To those that push him aside,
that poor sweet Prince of Prose.