They* sit there, week for week,
Surrounded by their own unique reek
That these people are breathing
When forgetting the mornings' heaving.
Surrounded by smoke
On which they do choke,
These people drag near,
Their deaths they do hear.
The thirst that they feel is raging,
Unquenchable, and it gets greater with aging.
These people drink and drink
Only to find that they don't float but sink.
These people, they, both one in the same,
Run from the good to play their good game.