Observe

From high in the tower
With half-shaken nerve
By the lateness of hour
And fates to be served
With a face ever dour
And form as as curve
Hanging head set to glower
And lacking reserve
With a taste always sour
And will to conserve
In a half-broken bower
That winds shake and swerve
For a hope does he scour
Like rations preserved
As a vagrant to cower
Afraid to subserve
To the half-waking shower
Of rains that unnerve
As the last given dower
Of pain he deserves
So he lets time devour
And lacking in verve
Does he wait in his tower
Of chains to observe

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