One satisfying hunger
Has left deftness in its wake,
Yet what good is nimble disposition
Once doused in frank, upwelling lake?

I was a rotten child once,
Now a convert to uncertain throes.
Good nature's left me weak and winded
In lands abound with strong-willed foes.

And all my gods have stretched their wills
Like so much bread on starving butter
I'd hoped my masquerade of frills
Would last me just a little longer.

But here we have the 'real thing',
That dark, foreboding hint of lie
This world that's full of hiding strangers
Has left all the good men to cry.