The Poor Dying Man
236 Words
In slovenliness lived the poor dying man.
Bearing his miseries through his big bottle wine.
This started when his young pretty wife
Left him all alone for another man.
In his hut lay his pot of clay
Filled with nothing but bale of hay.
Something he had keep to remember
Her handiworks in the last summer.
The poor dying man once a man of pleasure.
Now living a life of savour.
Making the big bottle wine
His only friend at ease.
Yet of regrets His wife he'd lose to the foppish city man.
Now she's gone and out for good
who will sit beside him at dusk
Blowing the coals when it's cold?
Who will wake him up at dawn
Even when the c**k crows?
Making him a warm tea in the dews.
When the only family he had
Was taken away by the city man
His only precious wife
Who had stood beside him during the strife.
Is it true women loves money more than men?
Is that why she'd left me all alone?
The poor man almost died wishing his mistakes amend.
For everything he'd caused her in the distant past.
That someday he prayed to embrace her once again.
Oh so now she is gone
He'd realized her worth.
That it feels the world is about to end.
Now she's no more to stay.
Oh all day all alone
The poor dying man now sleeps alone.
Why won't he make the big bottle wine his only friend at ease.
Even when it never brings him that seeking peace.
- Writer
