Blank stares, deep in thought, blocking out all surrounding din,
Sat alone, brooding, he knew then he’d committed that awful sin.
But what better way to extinguish the fires burning inside
Than sweet juices of apples grown in gardens he grew up in?
Like father, like son, It’s in his blood after all I guess,
To bury it deep down and end the night a drunken mess.
It never works.
He was born shrouded in the the mist and fog, the smog of doubt,
It’s no wonder now, looking back, he could make nothing work out.
So he’ll drown those twisted words, scolding looks, the stupid games,
As what’s begun in anger, believe me, it will always end in shame,
The shame of an empty glass and now an even emptier heart.
But he’ll be back up stronger, you’ll see, you’re wrong about him
He was born in the mountains, he’ll soar those heights again,
But for now let him be to drink as you’re driving him insane.