He was a prep-school dropout
From the Donegal Mist Academy,
Fortune’s fool who dared to love
The girl forbidden to everybody.
She was the rector’s daughter.
A cold and callous don,
He tried to keep the boy away,
But still her heart was won.
They shared a week of love
Before the scandal broke
In the pages of the school paper
For which he sometimes wrote.
Betrayed by an evil editor,
A rival for his paramour.
There was naught to do but flee
And be a prep no more.
For years he wandered Europe;
‘Twas there he learned the horn.
The cats all said they’d never heard
A tone so sad and forlorn.
To console his broken heart
He took solace not in drink,
But in tweed, flannel and silk knit,
And buttondowns of pink.
One day he returned to the city
And went to the Village Vanguard;
But all he knew were ballads,
And they wanted avant-garde.
So now he plays in the park
From noon till eventide,
Hoping the wind will carry his song
Across the Upper East Side.
But his love hears not his plaintive tune,
For the heart is a fickle organ;
She’s now in Greenwich, the dutiful wife
Of a Yalie at JP Morgan.
Photography: Manu Gupta
Styling and verses: Christian Chensvold
Clothing: J. Press
Shoes: Allen Edmonds
Trumpet: J. Landress Brass