They stand there glassy eyed,
Not quite side by side,
But close enough to feel every painful shake and quiver,
The judering and stucatoed shivers,
That reverberate all the way down to their liver.

The 11am Crowd at the bar,
For whom drinking becomes a daily chore,
Who shuffle there dutifully everyday,
Who haven't got far from the night before.

The 11am crowd at the bar,
Do they feel life is passing them by,
Do they even want to try,
To experience something more,
Than sticky floors,
And amber pints,
And revolving conversations,
That lead to lost nights.

The 11am crowd at the bar,
Do they believe that their downfall is their choice,
Or at the bottom of a pint,
Do they loose sight,
Of those who prayed for them day to final night.