What is this wretched treachery that holds My soul and body prisoner like this? What Demon tongs do grip me, iron cold And hard `gainst my skin, pinching in its kiss? How much longer will such cruel mistreatment Of this poor abused lonely man persist? How much more withstood before life's cement Falls from its cracking to make life desist? Life's ropes are near breaking, and their fetid Strands snap as old gnarled and useless sticks Do when used as cross beams to the rotted Doors of this body's fragile keep. What bricks Have built the dungeon about which I rage? `tis no fault of man, but that thing called "age".