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.