the muscles in my chin are weak.
My knees are sore and calloused;
the future seems oh so bleak.
The bright side's dimmed a bit.
My glass may have a hole.
My stem of thorns has lost its rose.
I've lost all sense of control.
Both ends of my candle have met,
the brass ring's really aluminum foil.
My get up and go, got up and left
and my blood's too congealed to boil.
Despite the odds against me,
I will carpe this diem indeed
For I never fight all by myself
I'm armed with faith the size of a mustard seed.
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