I've Got a Right to Sing in Blues

Now I wend

towards the end

of my rope. 
I have run

short of fun,

faith 'n' hope. 
Life is over.

Life's done.
Life’s (tho’

once sorta fun) 

full of woe:

I can no

longer cope. 

Now I'm play'd out.

I’m wash'd up.

I’m spent. 
Now's the winter,

and I'm

discontent. 
I’m all in.

It’s a wrap. 
Time to take

The Big Nap. 
(Leaves one wond’rin'

where all of it

went.)

Now this case,

like this casement,

is closed,

as the body

erodes --

decomposed.

That last scene

was a flop.

Cut! Don't print it --

full stop.

I've been --

hook, line 'n' sinker --

well hosed.

Now I'm finish’d.

I’m used up.

I’m drain’d.

Sky's gone grey;

name one day

it's not rain'd!

Oi! I'm runnin'

on empty.

I'm krenky,

verklempty.

My options...?

All stopp'd...

or constrain'd.

Now the sands

through my hands

are run out,

I can see

that The Reaper's

en route.

As the curtain's

descending,

"So this

is the ending...?"

I brood --

then conclude,

"Without doubt."

Now the foundry

has ground

to a halt.

Nor no longer's

my song

worth its salt.

Need I now

to name names

as to who

bears the blames...?

Hold the phone:

'tis my own

bloody fault.