He sits on the side
With a bottle in his hands.
His dream was to teach,
But now each bottle was his deed.

He used to have kids.
But they were just a bother.
His child now was the bottle
that rested on against his cheek.

He wanted to marry,
But she couldn’t dare.
After all her heart was someplace else.
So the bottle has became his love.

He wished and he desired
To be kissed and to be held
By the warm touch of her finger tips.
Yet now he has drowned in the bottle that he has so chosen.
Where he lies now, at the bottom of this bottle.
Where he has lost a battle and finally lost the war.