A lonely man stood alone,
Affront him was a glass of whiskey.
His hand was dark and wobbled,
His speech jabbered in an inaudible note.
He stared at the glass for a very long time,
Tears of emotions streamed down his withered cheek.
Slowly he groped for the glass that stood still,
Shakily he brought it close to his lips.
He rekindled the butt of a dying cigarette,
Puffed in the last fumes of smoke.
The whiskey flowed down to the dark tank in his liver,
The nicotine pushed its way to the shrinking lungs.
He licked the lost drop of beer that clung to the rim.
The night was cold and dark with rain brimmed clouds,
one by one the people began to take leave from the bar.
The hall otherwise frenzy with drinkers felt the eerie silence,
But he stood firm, did not budge from the long old bench.
He clasped the half empty bottle in his arms,
he stretched his body about the bench and dozed off.
The bartender did not wake him until the next day,
little did they realise that they were waking up a corpse.