Why does the drinker drink?
Let’s give this thought a think.
He’s up all night with a glass held tight,
And does not sleep a wink.
His eyes are red, his heart is lead
Nevertheless, he wonders
About useless things such as love and life
And his drinking blunders.
Sometimes he lights a smoke to accompany
His scotch, and gin and tonic;
Still the troubles of the day, on his heart, do lay
And the drinks become moronic.
You’d think he’d stop, you wish he’d stop,
He’d better stop that drinking!
But still, he pours another glass, waits for the momentary thoughts to pass
And carries on his thinking…
He thinks about his failures, his doubts,
The decisions that led him downhill,
About the little things, he could’ve done and should’ve done,
And the bottles get emptier still.
With a reminiscent finger, he scratches his beard
And tries to stand upright,
He falls in the ridiculous mess he’s made
And prefers sobbing to sleeping, at night.
He is not afraid of the sadness that comes
After a good long weeping,
But, as his thoughts hijack his dreams,
He has grown afraid of sleeping.
Now, we begin to understand,
The problem lies not in his heavy drinking
But, rather in the stupid way,
He’s killing himself with thinking.