This body is not bendable.
I must stretch a great deal
before even the least strenuous of activities.
I choke and grunt when standing
or sitting down
or staying still too long.
I can fight for no one’s honor
least of all my own.

My soul has been blackened and crackled.
It is hardened and hardly healthy,
if it can even be found at all.

My heart has been bent and broken,
beaten and bought by bitches and bros
at so many booked events
it cannot be believed
– by me, at any rate.
I breathe heavily after a flight of stairs
or a look at a young girl.
My chest cannae stand another strain.

There is weakness all about me
if e’er there was any strength
of which to speak.
I’ve been crushed and crumbled
by strife and circumstance,
and like my buddy McCartney,
I’m not half the man I used to be.
Plus: I’m down. I’m out.
I’m in trouble, but
if you say there’s a chance
I might find just a little resilience
left in me yet.