He couldn't put the bottle down,
His sorrow was unrequited,
His hands were unstable,
And another shot soothed him,
Comforted by the burn,
A physical rather than mental hurt.
He swung his head to the left,
And he swung it to the right,
His blood shot eyes searching the bar,
A familiar face, or perhaps a whore.
He swore; his cheeks tingled,
Vibration of his lips ensured he spoke,
But something was missing,
His misery, his pitiful being, his human quality.
He was a drunk who lost it all,
The girl, the job, the car and house,
Look at him now, sitting by himself,
Watching from the corner of his eye
The way the sluts sashay by,
Touch them, he wants to,
He desires a hand to hold tonight.
Another shot slammed down,
Fiery sensations swell in him,
And he wants to cry out
"Drinks on me! Drinks on the house!"
But he remains quiet,
His hands out in front
On the hardwood tabletop
Sweat fingerprints on the glass.
Laughter erupts from somewhere,
Inside his mania, a soul is still there,
Drunk and alone, he is just human,
But drunk and alone, he is not man.
Heartbroken and tattered,
His breath is whiskey,
His blood is wine,
His eyes scotch brown,
His teeth are tequila,
And his skin is gin.
He is his poison,
He is his crime,
He is his sin.