He’s an alcoholic.
A genius, but moronic,
Meanest when he’s on it. Sedentary,
As his eyes drooped then widened
He would take another shot
In the back of darkened corners
In the middle of the bar
Then his skin became pale as the scene
Grew stale, with a puff of popularity
He sank into his ale.
With his Gatsby-like prosperity
He rose up to the stool,
And he stayed there until sunrise soaking
Tears hiding behind his eyes
There’s nothing he would rather do.