just coping with ^*)

My soul, a place unfathomed deep
where speaking monsters restless creep
They carve, like an industrious wright,
my undercrofts, as black as night
So when I cry to you, please know
there lie the mere roots of my woe

No sheltering vaults for grief or pain
nor Heavens realm. Old Adams main:
a poisoned bog, a manure heap
And scratches in the flesh do sneap
So, if I ever cry you'll know
it's the old De Profundis woe

I dare not tread that horrid place
to my sane body a disgrace
My maker called it apple tree
And yet it resonates in me
Voicing its voice will make you know
from ancient times the human woe