ALCOHOLIC

By Peter Woodgate 

SO, here I am, waking

On a sad, sad Sunday morning.

I hear the rain drumming

On the windows they’re calling.

 

Grey skies await as I slowly climb

From my bed and lazily shower,

If I am to combat this “God Awful Day”

I will need every ounce of my power.

 

God gave us this day to rest, I am told

So that we could worship his might,

But Sundays, to me, when everything stops

Merely heightens the sadness I fight.

 

I look at the slab sunk in the earth

And imagine Beth’s once smiling face,

I hope, that perhaps, she is smiling still

Away from this cold dreadful place.

 

I then think of cats and the way that they play

With birds and with mice, they have caught,

It appears that God has similar traits

Which oppose the things we are taught.

 

Although I am sad, I carry a guilt

And of this am certainly sure,

My pain is nothing compared to those

Sufferings that Beth bravely bore.

 

It 's Sunday evening and I’m down the pub

Supping a tipple or two,

Maybe it’s three, or four, even five

And then I hear voices on cue.

 

“Oh, that is Bob, he’s an “alky” you know,

A complete waste of space should you ask,

I hear what they say but don’t want to play

And hide behind carrying a mask.

 

I know that I drink and know I get drunk

Repeatedly, seems I’m insane,

But it helps me to dream and then it would seem

I am walking with Beth once again.

 

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate