The life of a drunkard

The life of a drunkard
I sit in the lonely corner,

Waxing and carving the stoner.

His image is perplexed, and hard to make out,

But his very stare, makes my wits run about.

He sits in the corner,

With a waxen mustach and a corner.

A corner of happiness he reserves for the mourner.

A dried up stick of happiness,

Capped into a thin vessel of sheer plentiness.

He carries the vessel like i do my sadness.

Til one day he can’t anymore,

And he leaves her eyesore.

My bottle is half empty,

Ive been here since three a sippin straight femmy.

I don’t know what time it is now,

But im still sipping til i hear the howl.

The howl of the night, that soothes me on,

The howl of the night, the cures the stoners bone.

This is the image i create in the lonely bar room,

Drinkign my pain away, one bottle of empty will bring me my doom.

One sip of that straight Jack,

And im forgetting where im at, as i lay back.

I stare at the barstools, filling with more,

More people like me, who drink to fill some sore.

My money is about gone now,

Its been poorly spent says the people whour scorn.

They scorn at my actions of indeceny,

But i find this a quiet alright action, in the face of the vacancy.

Im now a hoeing rye til 3,

If only i can head to the bar, spend my money on thee.

Nobody quite understand the drunkard,

Because they never been in my junkyard.

They haven’t seen the bones and the skeletons,

The past i try to hide, comes eating at my buzzlin.

When i have nothing left is when i find that stoner,

And me and him share a good mourner.

You’ll never understand the bar room and our people,

Unless you’ve walked the path on the steeple.

So don’t go a judgin me next time,

Cause you will find yourself doing this to bide your time.