What can I say,
I am a hypocrite.

Drinks like a pirate,
I suppose I curse and act like one too.
But whenever I see you intoxicated,
I'm afraid,
And every so slightly broken.

They're not your doing.
In fact they come from a time before you.

My bumps and bruises
They're whisky soaked,
Purples lumps on my soul from split wine,
Burns on my mind like the taste of *****,
Cuts on my heart bleeding as soft as gin,
And fear in my spirit like a shot of jagermeister.

I know they're not your fault,
But they don't like the look of a man with a bottle in his hand.
So maybe I'm a hypocrite but I don't like it when you drink.
Not even sure I like it when I do.