by Nick Gisburne
He needs a someone. Trevor needs a friend
But nobody will talk, or dance, or play
So when his voices whisper this: “Pretend”
He builds a man, who cannot run away
He calls him Herbert, sings him little songs
And feeds him with the scrapings from his plate
He finally believes that he belongs
But Herbert needs a someone else, a date
And Herbert is not easy to refuse
He grizzles, groans, protesting with a pout
Until, defeated, Trevor lets him choose
A lady, pale, mysterious, and stout
They do the dirty shuffle in his bed
But Trevor knows tomorrow they’ll be dead
