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Whiskey in a bottle


Nicola Ashcroft.

A man walking down the street,
his shoulders dropped,
head bowed...

His clothes all tattered,
so worn out,
his eye's dark,
almost dead...

Stopping in every door way,
ever corner,
in his inside pocket,
he find his saviour,
a bottle of whisky...

Tonight the town will look bright,
tonight he will see no fear,
no light,
no nothing...

He shouts out to all who will listen,
abusing those who don't....

Saying good night to the road sweeper,
and good morning to the bottle,
in his pocket is his life....

Walking the streets alone,
his face unshaven,
tired and thin,
his body all weak,
in his pocket it his soul,
his very fight....

Crying out in delirious stoppers,
lost in his empty world,
his fingers covered in gold,
a memoire of a life once before,
in his pocket is his spirit,
the only fight he has,
his spirit in a bottle....

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