Every night I drink,
while trying not to think,
about all the opportunities I have blown.
Then I smoke a pipe,
contemplating life,
while I listen to the winter winds that drone.
By the time I hit the nicotine,
I'm feeling fairly libertine,
Certain notions get to flowing like the Rhone.
I'm sick of this existence,
the image gets persistent,
I think it's time I put a bullet in my dome.