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.
Tenha acesso a benefícios exclusivos no App e no Site
Chega de anúncios
Badges exclusivas
Mais recursos no app do Afinador
Atendimento Prioritário
Aumente seu limite de lista
Ajude a produzir mais conteúdo