Friday, 31 August 2012



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.

No comments:

Post a Comment