I prescribed myself a prone prolonged surrender.
And proscribed my born role of friend and pretender.
Abdicated agencys affirming splendor.
And took to my bed a mind with which to render,
A world in which I still felt tender.
Confer upon this frail frame,
A warrant for my given name,
An agent I can justly blame,
And a brain complacent and tame.
And the prognosis is a slow descent
Of steadily increasing increments
Of liquor to the stomach of the sick.
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