I walk through the night.
There are stars in the sky.
Maybe I’d notice
if there weren’t tears in my eyes.

I stumble to the left.
Then over to the right.
The bottle in my hand
starting to feel light

What must other people see?
On their high horse,
Staring down at me

A man holding a bottle,
A drunkard at the least.

Answer me this,
What good is a rose,
Wilted though it may be,
If all that you see,
Are the thorns underneath?