The story of a man following in his alcoholic father's footsteps.

English version:

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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