In sorrow, failure, tragedy or wist,
'Tis comfort that makes me a *******.
My neck hurts from the tics I do,
My eyes resent the strain I put them through,
My brain, at war, breaks down the hopeful side,
Discouraged that it ever had such pride.
I miss the one-days I found happiness,
Before my mind decided to regress,
Before the glooming days, like this;
Before the pain made me a *******.

O angels calling all around me, hail them!
No doubt they know the diverse ways I fail them.
Myself I fail, and all the world. It floods
Like Barbary in Noah's time, when bloods
From angels' ***** became extinct, and then
The land once ruled by giants fell to men.
Since men are giants now, they cannot stand
The presence of a pest upon their land,
Producing naught but tearful sorrows pall.
They fear my rise, that I might doom them all.