Life, a once sweet reward, do now bring respite, if not overly sharpened sword, then a fast-made sleight.  What justice may ask, I've all but paid, and I, a virgin, hardly been laid.   And if I were, a man of the world, would I yet, speak of life sweet and old-world?  I think not, for life is crusty, a sword, perhaps, if so, then rusty.  Life begs adoration, but its love I don't honor, a thief am I, condemnation and succor.

Life is not well, no matter I think, t'would be nice were my thoughts all in a link, but it provides no medium, and I no light, I suffer from tedium, and still fear the sleight.  We fear foremost, were we not angels of truth, I stand waiting here, in a lost, dingy, dirty phonebooth.  My call's not received, God will not answer, and I’ve lost hope in Santa, even in Prancer.  The whole world's gone missing, and I with it, a cosmic, celestial pissing, and a part, not even two-bit.

I still stare at distant visions, hoping in glorious end, but if I'm lucky I'll die by a friend.  The truth be told, I'll die an old man, a machine gone cold, a fry fried in a pan.  My hand stretches forth to touch creator at last, my belly's still empty, my soul in a fast.  The drunkard finds truth in a willowy story, my languid hand touches not, no life will find glory.  Where possibility lies, no hope shall remain, my birth was from chance, half of me is bed stain.