He's high in spirits low in soul
And like his drink he's bitter
Reminiscing of the days of youth
When he was strong and fitter
His voice will dare not speak a word
Quietly sipping his life away
While sitting under neon lights
And drinking for the day
Doing cash jobs on the side
To fund the fuel he needs
Dropping money on the bar
Upon the ale he feeds
Still he cannot find the will
To shave or even shower
Waits for the best part of his day
When clocks strikes happy hour
Only thinking of him drinking
His next pint of liquid gold
And the only thing he hopes for
Is the ales refreshing cold
The bar stool throne he calls his own
When drunk he feels he's king
The truth is he's a slave to booze
It's his crutch and it's his sling
His mind is the depressive kind
The torment deep inside
But does not try to save himself
Behind the pint glass he will hide
He sees how the pint glass glistens
Though his visions rarely clear
He's supporting his misfortunes
On a fortunes worth of beer
His ailing failing liver stretched
And beaten from the booze
Does not worry for his organs
Or that his life he stands to lose
For a bit he tried to quit
And quickly gave up trying
Sees his reflection in his pint
That will watch him slowly dying
'The Spirit Of An Alcoholic' Copyright © 2010 Matthew Densley
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its the hard thorough truth. I'm years off it! well written, a 7, john
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nicely penned I enjoyed the read