I watched the old man walking home (from the pub) stumbling up our street.
Swaying from side to side,
tripping over his own feet.

I listened to him mumbling,
under his *** stained breath,
telling himself that he's found his keys and his life isnt a mess.

I watch the old man stop and stare at nothing on the road,
he gives the moon one final glare before he rocks back on his toes,
hes off again,
an making pace,
even though its in the wrong direction,
He's heading back to the pub again,
Where he knows theres no rejection