The saddest Robert in the world is not I, but an ice cream melting in the sun.
My tears are wiped with sleeve or lovers thumb while his drip onto thonged foot.
My blood is giving life even as his is being flavoured.
My sadness is human, removed from natural selection, but his is a lack of humanity, decided upon by a child's pruned index.
The saddest Robert in the world wears square pants.