In this room, there is an evil old man
Exhausted by the novel that he wrote
The light from the fireplace hurt his eyes
So in frailty, his eyes are always shut
Eyes that once had a name which gave him friends
People who thought he was weird and OK
But now he is shunned, reduced to this state
He answers the door and begs them to stay
"They" being whoever said person might be
He'd tell an assasin to wait up, please
Pretend he had a friend before death
Imagine it, an old house, an old man
Who's spirit has died, not crippled by age
But by his foe's words; of lost hope and rage