I

Oh, what troubles you, old man,
so alone and poorly aging?
Your skin withers on your face,
without your friends engaging.

II

Oh, what ails you, curmudgeon,
So lost and cursed in love?
Your light-staff now is hanging limp
and cannot rise above.

III

I see life’s pain-map in your frown,
and teeth becoming few,
rings are round about your eyes,
dark, without a clue.

IV

I...

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