Ode to the Mud

My fingers are lead, my shoulder is dead,
The palm of my hand is swollen and red.
All of my joints crack in staccato,
Unseen by eyes that need aid to see evil.
My body shivers, weary, in wait,
Of an ankle that pains to keep itself straight.
I suffer to keep a malfunctioning organ
That deigns to leave me dying or broken,
A head of hair that wishes to flee,
Each follicle struggling with esprit
Unlike my belly which grows ever flaccid
Or my libido which was fun while it lasted.
But mind over matter, and that worries me most
What spirit there was long gave up the ghost
There is only silence and thoughts of malaise...
I grow catty now with all these dog days.