My eyes are black:
because sleep, often, defeats me
in the brutal Battle of My Bed.

The art of counting sheep
is one that- this head has not mastered.

So, as such, the damp tobacc-
o- keeps my lungs looking,
dreadfully, similar to my eyes.

The alcohol that keeps me plastered
is withering away my liver.
& death, one day, shall be delivered-
unto me.