The fingers raw and palms tired
The poets dead at the desk
With not a drop to drink
In his mind trying not to sink

Melancholy words were all he had to show
The rest he'd send where his needle would go
In his last expanse, most desperate trance
His letters were naught
In his final rattle and dance

The tears he always fought
All he was, was all he wrought
And with 25 lines and his composition view
He kissed the ice
As the needle pushed him through