The Victrola played steadily. Beside it sat A white-faced youth, with a battered hat Aslant on his frowsy, dishevelled head. Obviously, he wished he were dead. He sat hunched over, staring at the wall With eyes that saw no wall at all. With half of one large foot he kept The music's rhythm. He wept. The record played on. Each time it ended, He would look up startled: greatly offended. He would then rise With streaming eyes. Carefully, With a face of pain, He would start the same tune over again.
