Slouching at a dusty table
By the company of a candles light
There is a lonely writer
But he has no words to write

Plots and characters in his mind
Seem to escape his fingertips
Most likely they were washed away
By the whiskey on his lips

In the dim room he stays
Staring into space
The paper waiting in his typewriter
As blank as the expression on his face

He sits and smokes
Upon his withering cigar
While he weeps inside his head
Wondering where the words are