In lonely gloom, a genii in a jar. No room for flying high. I'm in a tomb where mad Arachne and her creepy crew keep jittering up and down, a spooky loom. My entryway's a jakes for giants, who gorge on gut-loosening grapes or suffer flux. No other comfort station seems to do.
Congestion blocks the postern down in back.
With all the phlegm, top exit's blocked as well. Gut-sprung and graveled, spavined, out of whack, done in by drudgery's what I am. I pay innkeeper Death for a fleabag, grub and sack. Old and gray, discomfort's my repose. The bogeyman, that's me, at a twelfth-night show.