It pains me much at last to see
Where there is mediocrity
That all the other men you know have wings that I will never grow
Have hearts of purest beaten gold
When all I have is tired and old
Have twinkles where I wrinkle now
And know how that I know not how.
I know at last the end you chose;
Their lazy hunger for your pose
And love is what you now suppose
Happens when you lose your clothes
And so this tired old man you knew
Who sacrificed so much for you
Will wend his way into the west
And lay his love down there to rest
And never think of you again;
A thing of dross for golden men