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”.