This old canal is filled to the brim with my tears,
For once I was a sage, a king..
And now I am a mere gondolier.
Ride with me down the crumbling streets and ruined ramparts
And marvel at the once illustrious, now vacant alley ways of my soul.
The pure face of the water reflects my pained expression
As I await some divine intercession.
But, alas, many folks come to worse ends;
And the world's spinning does not end.
At least I have a lifetime to assess the sweep of my woe,
To watch for signs of it in the undertow,
To drink it in, from the top of my head, to the tip of my toe.
That's more than many men will know,
Who have never fallen from on high,
Into the murky depths where gruesome gods lurk below.
Most men sleep through it while their family jewels
Are slowly stolen by the passing years.
I leer at the young tourist girls as they come by,
My oar will never take them where they long to go.
Truth, the most beautiful maid,
She who's charms never fade,
Will never ascend this baleful bank.
Thus, my spirit, ever-lank,
Filled with thoughts dark and dank,
In this stagnant, oppressive tank,
Will never even know how very low it has SANK.