The story of a man following in his alcoholic father's footsteps.
He walks the streets at midday,
but it’s midnight in his mind.
He strays in his desert’s pathless way
no refuge there to find.
The water of life is stagnant,
a rusty coloured death,
there’s confusion in his limbs
there’s whisky in his breath.
Ask him what it feels like;
he describes it as a thirst,
and with the chance to call on Jesus
lets the devil answer first.
Woe is me, I am undone
to see the things I do
for he knows his scripture, knows his sin,
and he pleads the gospel’s true.
Johnny Walker’s in his grave
and he’s still causing hurt
when a poor soul meets a sorry end
and joins him in the dirt.
But the old man, he is funny
tells a joke or two,
you’ll laugh and give him what he wants
and the joke will be on you.
He used to go to town
for a drink out with his friends,
but now he likes the taste of gambling
with Johnny at weekends.
When Monday morning comes around
if he’s lucky he looks a state.
With liver cirrhosis, the anaemic diagnosis
of his hunger for a steak.
There’s a lonely grave by a barely field,
where as a child he used to play.
There his father lays, warning him
but he’s heading the same way.
At that sober stone where two ravens perch
a solemn inscription reads:
“Forsake the drink, flee from the world,
if you want to rest in peace.”
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