Alas, Alas.
With gracious acknowledgement to the bard & composer, Walter Frye.

I am tired—
Of this, there is no doubt,
These sufferings, other things,
Bothering unfair fates, in games
Of casting lots,

Crafty, as quick as shots.

Too, I am tired—
Of this time and this place,
With its ghastly faces
And creeping, crawling pricks
With venemous licks,

Of stinging, numbing contempt.

Yes, I am tired—
Of toil and of dread,
And dead-certain doom,
That bitterly writhes, rises, binds, 
Like callous, malevolent vines—

Alas, alas.