He tried to outrun his history,
But in the end it’s no mystery
That he fell back to his old ways
That he’d lived in his oldest days.
The things that gave him life before
But closed the door on anything more.
A drunk-empty bottle, or two, or three
that took his mind away and made him feel free.
A poor slave to the ever present drink,
for a round drunken down took away what to think.
For what else was there but this same trial,
which could leave his thoughts empty for the long while?
But the drink proved again and again no respite,
and in the end, he couldn’t help but prove others right.
Those who laughed when he said “Just you wait, you’ll see!
I’ll be a better man later than I now can ever be!”
He tried to outrun his history,
And there is no shame in the failed attempt.
But in the end it’s no mystery
that his promise wasn’t kept.
For the bottle which once was his only friend,
and now that bottle holds his end,
For he’s fallen into that pit, with no light to see.
So why not drink down another round, two, or three?