Listen, Daisy, When I die, although
You may not feel a thing, you must
Tell all my friends in London how much
My loss makes you suffer. Then go

To York, where you claim you were born
(But I don't believe a thing you claim),
To tell that poor boy who gave me
So many hours of joy (but of course

You don't know about that) that I'm dead.
Even he, whom I thought I sincerely
Loved, won't care. . . Then go and break

The news to that strange girl Cecily,
Who believed that one day I'd be great. . .
To hell with life and everyone in it!