Hadn't seen my brother in awhile, I wondered if he’d something risky.
Instead I found him at home sitting alone drowning in swigs of whiskey.
The dark living room became his cave.
The couch acted as his grave.
How strange it is to see a man become a bottles slave.
Has Bourbon withered him away until there's nothing left to save?
Much time has passed since we roamed the woods and strolled along the creek.
Now it seems the creek has dried, the trees have died, and the forest looks bleak.
But somewhere out in the cornfield I can still here him speak.
Corn, the original form of the poison that makes him weak.