Mister Tom Musick is touched by your concern and consternation, and he appreciates your morbid fascination, but there’s nothing to be done for him now. The bloom is off the rose, the hour late. He’s been licked by the flames of love; he’s been Merloted, Bordeauxed and Shirazzled. The bright dreams of his youth have burned away. And he’s the first to admit that he’s got no gallant horse to ride; no hopes or ropes to fling you.
Just let him be the one to sing you down off the ledge.