Alcohol Field Marshal
Each time, he clumsily drank,
Rapidly shrank:
Increasing glasses of burning whisky
He knew was risky.
Then, twice ‘Pitiless Rum’ he tried
And up he dried
A mackerel, from head-to-tail fried!
Like a plant to soon wilt
At a stand still; did tilt…
Now, exceedingly poor,
His company forcing on a family of four,
He had the Lord God to thank,
Each time, he half-filled his tank.
But it has nothing changed
And his life not re-arranged:
In drinking quarters, of Field Marshal Rank
Which I heard and my heart sank.
God! A man by choice bat-blind,
Straight up to his mind?
To all others perfectly behind
While a perfect wristwatch he does wind…
Alcohol Field Marshal,
Whom to ‘Positive Change’ could brave an “I shall”.
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