Grapes of Despair

There is no part of life mine alone, If regarding my whole existence. What belongs to me is only flesh and bone, Therefrom this life has subsistence. Down on the farm I was buying time, The universe I studied for reason. Sweetest wine carried me through my prime, It numbed my pain in every season. There arrived torturous days galling, Mainly dispiriting to my mentality. Yet I operated above whatever was appalling, I just dared not easily show my fragility. All this and more, it kept me sane, Scarcely a day I had without sin. There was the neglect, and profanity arcane, Its blasphemous speech was akin. On a dry creek bed I oft-times laid, Looking up at the sky in a daze. Habitually I went there and quietly played, Literally it was a place I could laze. Sometimes I caught fresh tadpoles, Then cooked them in a tin pot. These larvae's I collected from tiny water holes, An acquired taste they were hot. But only to the conversant hillbilly, I rather was such in an awful rut. It wasn't something I could flee quite freely, So in my misery I feasted on smut. Actually I tried to glance elsewhere, But I felt like a slave to this stain. They looked so pretty in their neckwear, Several were butt naked in the rain. Across the flat fields cattle grazed, Completely ignoring the crows. A vineyard nigh I watched over unfazed, Lady of plight too would impose. The grapes of despair I grew there, Relying on ***** men in chains. They worked all day till dusk without fanfare, And none of them had notable names. It was a harsh country for the folk, Ye all marked fateful on a tether. Unfortunates who had no rights to provoke, Things there were cruel altogether. The slave tarts I occasionally took, Most offered no fiery resistance. But when one did I quickly gave her the hook, It meant she'd hang in an instance. Until the grapes of despair expire, I shall continue my trade of sin. Down on the farm I expect this life to backfire, Postulating fears to my hell therein.