He drank down their smooth yet firey
misnomers and falsehoods until he was
the drunkest man in the world.

He is devoid of logic and reason.
He would make it to the top one day,
hell or high water all that could stop him,
spurred ever onward by new casks
off the foul stuff bottled by the fellows
down the way.

But once or twice he sobers up
and starts in to thinking, as he once did.

I met him on such an occasion.
There he was, confused and befuddled,
just beyond an open door.
I went to him. He said he had troubles.

I said that life was hard.
Tell me about it, he replied.
But it’ll get better some day, he said.
I won’t be around to see it.

He left then, to drink more of their foul draft,
so I told him to take care.
He said you got to.
So I do.