Painful Rythm

He's an old man,
Held high among his clan,
Lived his life on the high,
Even though his defect is in the eye,
His mind is twisted as his braids,
Melancholia he is, no one ever comes to his aid.
That's all he wails,
Like mad dogs wagging their tails,
Living everyday as though its the last,
For difficult was his past,
And the future seem to hold nothing,
Not even a pod or a bean.