I come with my senility in the cold of December
Listening to raindrops and whistling for wind
I have become spineless, an aspic goo
Face plastered upon a limestone wall
Nose, eyes and ears trickling like dripping clay
I talk to you with sticky, gummy throat
Pleading words unheeded and ignored
A blustery gust smothered by an open expanse
Like a stray cat pussyfooting on bladed walks
Now a groan with hardly a sound, a weak mewl
Charon will meet me at the banks of Styx
Soon to cross the stiles with fare in hand
Think of me, now that I have become
A wretched and troubled soul
A spineless man, an aspic goo
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