A quiet rage fills me lungs, one I am unable to voice to effect. Viewing the wreckage of an indolent life, with all of its supposed pleasures I shiver and the hairs raise upon me neck. No lasting glory built upon drunken dreams for to eulogize, simply a ramshackle shanty, crumbling in on itself neath a cloud filled sky. What folly or twist of mind could bring a man to love such a place? Was it that whiskey took his sight, or perhaps the dreams so embraced to thwart off the pain of destitution, have yet to dissipate?
A glory to poverty and all its whiles, I drink for they who endure,
Be they victims or fools, to health I tip me glass.
For though your shoes fit me not and your minds be dark,
You make me feel, which I’ve not done in many a day.
So as the trees rustle in the wind, and the grass sways
As the world turns and life marches on everywhere
A pint to ye who remain steady amongst the refuse listless.
A toast and a cheer for ye who have heard none before,
Standing alone amongst the wreckage of your fear,
The torn fabric of your soul screaming out its mournful din
It’s for you I drink and sing, drowning out your folly.
Sláinte
Al
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