wakes from his slumber
foggy eyed and rough
too much vodka last night
voice shallow and gruff
the medicine he's chosen
the hair of the dog
he walks to the off-license
the air still thick with fog
he sits alone
just him and a bottle
feels nothing as the vodka
pours down his throttle
starting to feel it
laying on the couch half-cut
listening to the radio
as the booze churns his gut
he wastes most the day
watching films and talking shit
doesn't go out
stays confined in his pit
spends his evening drifting
in and out of sleep
sometimes thinking about life
and sometimes starting to weep
he goes to bed unable to see
another day spent in a downward spiral
and he’ll repeat this tomorrow and the next
because it’s nothing but a cycle