He had strummed on a guitar only once, and had, for it, improvised lyrics that he subsequently wrote down:  Isn't life rich, isn't life gay, isn't life the best way to pass the time away.  The lyrics had made him smile, until he wrote them down, giving them heft — heft, it turned out, that burdened the breezy spirit in them, enough for him to soon question whether he had originally meant the opposite of what he had intended, whether his intention had not been a way to hide what he had actually meant.