Another night of coffin nails
And bottles of sweet liver killer.
That seems the best he can expect
In this world that he figured was
Spawned from the left nut of God.
Wander over to the hotcake hut.
Get that cup of the black stuff
That just gets stared at and
Barely sipped.
Not so much a life gone wrong
As it was an enchanting sad song.
He gets these rhymes runnin’
Rampant through his head.
Looks back on better days,
Days when his hair wasn’t gray.
He knows there’s the Devil to pay.
He jokes at graves and laughs out loud.
He’s the last of his rowdy crowd.
He’s the one cursed with life so long.
It seems a snail’s pace but days go on.
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Daniel S. Irwin, native of Southern Illinois (such as it is). Artist, writer, actor, soldier, scholar, priest among other things.
Work published in over one hundred magazines and journals worldwide. Has appeared in over one hundred films.
Speaks fluent gibberish when loaded. Not much into blowing his own horn as you are only as good as your latest endeavor.
Once turned to religion but Jesus just walked away.
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