The Drunkard, composed 18 March, 2011, in a huff with my dear friend over his habits.

A man who wanders lives to roam,

And has no place to call his home.

Alone he walks, alone he sleeps,

Alone the long night-watch he keeps.

Secluded, simple, solitary,

Often sad and never merry.

He lives to drink and drinks to live,

Though little pleasure drink can give

When drink imbibed is drunk alone.

A drunk must learn to right, atone,

But hope remains forever bright

And plausible if he will fight;

Fight for his life and honour still,

Then he might conquer this brown swill.