I come with my senility in the cold of December br Listening to raindrops and whistling for the wind br I have become spineless, an aspic goo br Face plastered upon a limestone seawall br Nose, eyes and ears trickled like dripping clay br I talked to you with sticky, gooey throat br Pleading words loudly, unheeded and unheard br Like blustery gust on dried quivering twigs br Like a stray cat pussyfooting on bladed walks br Now a shape without form, a pallid tone br A portless odyssey, a motionless struggle br br Charon met me at the banks of the river Styx br Crossing the stiles with ticket willingly paid br Think of me now as though not gone br But as a wretched and troubled soul br As a spineless man, an aspic goobr br Eddie Roabr br