Vices

Good ole’ Jim, Jack, and that Captain Morgan,

the deceivingly truest of the true.

The only friends you’ve ever had

to ease you through the black and blue.

They burn like hell but fill the voids,

the places that love couldn’t find.

To heal those cracks – the ones self inflicted,

in a more seemingly convenient time.

  These glass bottles sit like war medals,

proof of a life lived on the road.

With your crazy eyes and a heart on fire

you’ve lived the Kerouac-American mold.

Sustained on cigarette burns and coffee stains

and the laughter of beautiful women,

a medley of motel rooms, western skies,

with bondsmen to keep you free and livin’.

  You flew and you fell and you stumbled

until you found the bottom of that bottle,

dawn creeps in through the worn curtains

illuminating a road dog that’s lost his throttle.

Your friends – those vices – they stole you from yourself,

you gave them control for just too long.

You let it get hazy and before you knew it

some thing else was singing your patron song.

  The only comfort you’ve ever known

was to take back up with the drink;

keep up smoky barroom appearances

and hide more bottles under the sink.

You’ll keep on going like you’re living

but you’re off to nowhere fast.

So sit down on your home – that barstool,

and pour another lonesome glass.

-LMA