strung up between the pines
tendons stretched out on a few lines of twine
got these low down, sinew blues

my hands
all they good for
is smoking, and drawing a card

these tired hands
calloused and sore
nothing cures'em, the rot's tanned hard
you might not
but the body keeps score

in your old age
gracefully, you've become slow
through the pines
through the oaks
to arrive after the snow