Debate largely focused on giving up hope,
detecting the foreclosure of your life, all the while
you softly drink your Guinness
With the good old boys who
who hang around you like vultures on dead camels.
Like the pope with no job eating peyote.
Confused, hallucinating, gonzo.
You stick with them because without them
You’d be alone, drinking at home.
And its your minimum wage that pays for this gay olde time.
From happy hour to happy endings I see your pockets
disappear holding hands with your will to live.
Alas! Is last call, and those vultures are all gone
so when you come home with alcohol in your breath I know that tomorrow
our adorable hungry blue-eyed bastard won’t have food to be fed.
nada. 