I've grown tired.  That's the whole of it.  I don't like hearing
Children crying, don't like being dragooned into doing tasks
To please the wife.  My job is hard and not much fun.  My
Wrists are aching grieviously.  The weather's grim
And growing cold, and, when I go to bed to sleep, my wrists,
My hip, my lower legs, conspire to keep me awake.  Somewhere,
Someone leads a life in which the weather's always pleasant,
Nothing aches, and, when they visit, grandkids glow with joy.
One never has to hear them cry; the sort of scene which Norman
Rockwell, Maxfield Parrish might have painted, not a scene
Which features me.  I am elsewhere, brought by Charon
To the shitty shores of hell.  I'm old, depressed, and very
Tired.  That's the whole of it.