A dour crowd has gathered Around my homes hearth Where once there was energy and exuberance And youth abound Now they are as four witches In Macbethan gown Death has touched Some And he has left ah stench The others Squirm from the scent It is like a dim torch Being passed A sorrowful story from this one Another a divorce begun Each trying to top the next By God Age is the poison In their fruitful wine Age the soul eater A darkness Devine