In place of wallowing on monetary constrains
I compose a verse to dispel bitter pains;
Hands on the hang pate,
I’ve been longing for the irretrievable past glories of late.
But can my deep deep regrets
and constant brooding deter the pale sun from setting?
When young, I could cope with all sorts of severities and never fret,
Now weighed down by sorrow, my composure is swiftly breaking!