I need someone to hold me near when things inside get too austere.

But, who would want to fill that role when I for one am much too cold?

Some have tried to fix this hole, but all have ended up in my stranglehold.

It seems that the gods enjoy quiet malice when looking down on my calloused gladness.

Why do I seek out love and life, when I tend to cut them loose with a carving knife?

What better way to spend my free time than with rhyming and cursing the time and what's mine.