Poem

Here I am, drunken fool of old,

the constant walking blisters the sole,

Hear me whine! Hear me whine!

How the old days were plated gold.

But alas, such misery does not last,

a fair judgment, cast, cast and cast,

and my wings spread,

as I jest with jovial madness.

Till the return of the scourge,

the sword through glistening fires,

the might tested, rigorous,

as my spirit prays for His forgiveness,

for the lament and walking astray.