He’s an alcoholic.

A genius, but moronic,

Meanest when he’s on it. Sedentary,

Practically a-biotic

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.

This poem is about: 
My country
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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