by Arne Jensen
He’s sitting on the sidewalk watching storms inside his beer cup
Hoping no one glances down at him as they go racing home
His shirt is getting rugged by the hatred and the spitting
And his only pair of trousers are getting closer to the bone.
The taste of blessed freedom is what he always wanted
But he never started flying; he was stuck down on the ground
And the fumes of passing traffic are making breathing quite a struggle
And getting up is harder than the liquid going down
So he sits there on the corner nursing half a cup of bitter
Thinking solely of himself, and he doesn’t look too well
And his eyes flutter feebly as he makes his final statement
“fill my grave with whiskey boys, I drank my way to hell”.
They found him in the morning, dead from sheer exhaustion
From exposure and from alcohol and from lack of love and care
And in the unmarked grave, smelling faintly of whiskey
Lies the body of the drunkard, no one knows he’s there.
He would sit there in the corner drinking half a cup of liquor
Thinking only of his thirst, his hunger and his smell
His eyes would twinkle if he knew what I was thinking
How he filled himself with whiskey and he drank himself to hell
Last updated August 10, 2015