He was, he knew, he could have been
Anything he dared to dream.
Instead, he is, he will not be
Anything apart from lean.
To learn, to dream, he had quick wit,
Eloquent, to say the least,
But now, not then, he’s prisoner
To the drink they make from yeast.
He slurs, he spits, he does not know
What it is, that makes him tick!
He thinks, his words, are interesting,
Bright red nose, a whisky trick.
To say, he was, articulate
And possessed with wit and grace
To deny, would be a lie
If he wasn’t off his face.
He was, he knows, he should have been
That which it was he dared to dream,
But here, he is, he’ll never be
Anything, apart from lean.