Glacial Chest

My hands are getting so cold.
My fingers, tremble, and hardly
With 6 strings, very old old,
I breed unmelting heart.

Seventeen degrees
Pulls a bold breeze.
All the fibers freeze.
My glacial chest, disease.

Breed no more hope, instead
Fill your belly with perish.
The emptiness, it seems,
Is the key for your hells.

Lock'em all with a blizzard.

(PHP)