My grandpa was a proud man
And with his thunderous voice he was a loud man
He'd used to boast about carrying heavy bags
With one hand lifting his pants that sags
He'd brag about how he was as strong as a thousand oxen
But this was all before the toxin.

Now, my grandpa isn't a proud man
Doesn't really have a days plan
Let alone a night one.
He doesn't speak much as his voice is croaky and dry
He doesn't sit at night to sing or to cry
He simply sits hoping to waste away and die.
When once he could carry heavy items
He struggles to carry himself now.
The effects of the great alcohol
Use to make him whole
But now it creates a hole
Within him.
The light that burned inside him
Vanished with every sip of *****.
Selfish affliction
To a selfish addiction
And how I wish this poem was fiction.