To sell my soul for one last drink,
Before the darkness comes to take me away forever, The spirit taking bar tender looms at the end of my universe, My time has come to leave this stool,
One last time,
One last round,
Can you spare me the time, One last drink,
For the eternal road,
Which queue do I join?
Up or down,
Next drink in purgatory?
A round with St. Peter and the choir eternal,
The barman in his black cloak edges along the bar,
He rings the bell,
Every step he encroaches,
Toward my impending end,
No chance for a lock in,
Just to see one last sunset,
Will it be the perfect end to avoid the morning after, How did I go I think?
As my liver implodes and kidneys burst,
My own demon finally got his will,
My demise has always been written,
Just avoided the signs,
Thought it would be my lungs,
How silly do I now feel? What’s my legacy?
What mark did I leave behind?
Who remembers my name?
A tab left hanging,
The only reminder,
That I was ever here,
An empty stool tomorrow night,
Soon to be filled,
A replacement of sorts,
Can he pay my tab?
Or forever to be left hanging,
A reminder of me, The equivalent of the park bench plaque, For the alcoholic,
No blot to remind people of me,
Is it all i’m worth?
Just the price of my bill.
Its a genuine fear of mine from back in the day, that I would end up the sad, lonely bar fly every pub has, almost as though he is part of the decorations. Part of me feels, oddly dissapointed, that I have missed this destiny of my imagination, but more of me believes my life now, I missed that cirrhosis infected bullet, and some how I am not deserving of this new life of mine.