Whiskey Sour

Bucket full of coins and lint From pockets of the passing He sits there staring silently His sign board does the asking Truth be told he only wants Money for his drink His sign expresses honestly What the passers by all think Why Lie, Need Booze is written on his card But, to look this man right in the eye Is really something hard He doesn't smile, is dressed for warmth Even though it is quite warm I don't think it's for the weather It's for his own internal storm That rips apart inside his soul A storm that no one's seen It knocked him on a wayward course He lost who he might have been We'll never know just who he was We only know him at this hour For those who pass him here each day He's known as Whiskey Sour He sits there with his plastic tub Watching people on their way Whiskey Sour thanks them kindly No matter what they say A victim of his own devices Or a victim of all ours No matter where you walk and look You will all meet Whiskey Sours.