#483302 added February 26, 2007 at 10:51pm Restrictions: None
WITHERED HANDS
WITHERED HANDS
Withered hands and wrinkled face,
Of emotion, not a trace;
Half asleep and half awake,
Living only for his sake.
That is what becomes a man,
When he is four score and ten.
He can’t hear and he can’t talk;
Without a stick he can’t walk.
His step is no longer bold;
He can’t stand a touch of cold.
Ten steps are for him a mile;
Empty, toothless is his smile.
That’s what I will be one day.
God, from this keep me away.
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