Wednesday, 12 November 2014

Robbed of a Talent

To drink he drove at steady speed,
where lived and died his dad and mum.
He got there soon and set up home,
his down and fall had now begun.

He made his house, his room, his bed,
picked up a glass and put pen down.
Chin up, gin down and down he fell,
his head a-swim, began to drown.

No script, no book, no film, no fame,
his zest, his joy, that clever head.
Like him all wasted, squandered, lost,
pissed down the drain now he is dead.

I wrote a list of tales and joy,
to read when came his wedding day.
I spoke but girls and men did cry,
as in the box my friend he lay.

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