The Drinker

Not a penny in the pocket nor a female in the bed,
An empty belly rumbles up to an empty head.
Extend a hand hold outright because you drank your fill
And contemplate your life now, enjoy embittered thrill.
Where are your sons and daughters? Do they pull you from your den?
Or from the shadows call lonely wives
Who pull you from the other men.

Come social occasions it’s never better, though hidden in repent
By the time the sellers calling you’ve spent your very last cent.
And your mothers none the wiser, though she really knows what’s true
She prefers to think you’re a miser
Than suffering from the workers blues.

Though culture is an issue and old friends like to partake,
When conversation rings to a finish
Bent lives commence to break.

You’ll never meet a nicer man on a weekday
Happy to have one or two
And when he declines to stop drinking
You’ll see no starker truth.

A silly old habit for the drinker is to pick up a pen
And to say:
‘I am the worlds greatest thinker’
He’ll drink til his dying day.