3 o'clock in the afternoon
everyday is an addiction
that you take home
in a brown paper sack.
Bottles brewed and manufactured
to make a man of you,
their contents burn, trickling down
the throat of fate.
Into the crystal glass of high society
you pour laughter of crimson red,
red like the tears that fall
from the eyes of posterity.
As a world slides down the fermented slope,
clutching to everything and taking it down with them
the teary eyed children whisper in their sleep
"Don't put that bottle to your lips".