the view from his stool was a sad end to a life of despair
as he sipped another whiskey from his crippled hands
barely able to grasp the glass that contained the sweet nectar
his eyes said everything that his face tried to hide
a man faded to walk amongst the living dead

this was his existence this was his life
a man with no future a man set to die
his frail bones latched to the seat as his lips urged another fire from god
a shake so evident that time was past
yet his comfort was there for all to see
the bottom of a bottle now empty of greed

his weakness of spirit its name had him good
the water of Uisge Beatha alive in his blood
his stool is still there till next he does stagger
for more of his water and more of gods fire