A dim light flickers
Pool cues line the walls
Screams and shouts make echo
A young man pots the eight-ball.

One pianist guides the night
The house it gradually takes
The hopeless builder's money
He worked so hard to make.

I stare into the emptiness
Of my glass that was Jim Beam
And nod towards the 'tender
He shakes
"One more will make thirteen."

I stare into his eyes
I can see where he has been.

The lines upon his forehead
Cry mis'ries of the war
His lips ne'er felt the word father
Who died when he was four.

I see a widower stand before me
In the bristles of his chin
How deep my heart sinks
When I come round to think
Of how he drowns his sorrows in gin.

His hands show scars and bruises
Of work 'fore that of liquor
This man he radiates wisdom
The light keeps on its flicker.

I part my lips to ask him
Of great things he's done and seen
But his glassy eyes, sight absently
"Son, these things have gone and been."