Bag of Bones (unfinished)

Grimy, weather-beaten worn, decrepit ramshackle bag o'bones
I see you twitch, my old mucker
Hard to distinguish from that putrid writhing mass
I see you though, leaching with undiminished rancour
But silent and so nearly still, in disgust at all which has come to pass
This world is not yours any longer, no longer does it bend to your ear
Nor did it ever really, you bent people with words and with fear
And they, I'm afraid, are fleeting and impermanent at best
But you can be proud of commanding that short attention


So what for you now as the land soaks you back up
You accidental spillage from that oft overflowing cup
You want to be remembered, for there to be resonance in that name?
Not much you can do once you've had your shot in this game