They tried out all their futile cures on me.
They wrote their articles for you to read,
charting the dis-solution that I peed.
Some got tenure by me (prolonged life).
I got death, a definite relief.
And when I died, I found (bingo!) the key.

Passerby, stop passing and come here.
Consent to stoop to One Who Knows. Lean near.
The burning of the wick of telomere
is not the crucial thing: it is that we're
doomed compounded of the it and I,
Pronoun Trouble being why we die,

and even you, so lusty and so able,
will come down down a-down with Pronoun Trouble.