Face lined and drawn; his soul eaten with the sad prospects of an alcoholics dream.

Surrounded by the betrayals of his own judgement, he wanders blindly into the abyss of emptiness; caring and yet not caring.
Swirling ground and heaving stomach, he stumbles into his own shadow, his steps clumsy and deliberate. The expectancy of a great tomorrow seems as far away as his yesterday. Now his dreams are no longer clear.
Slurred notes of ‘NELLY DEAN’ fall from his parched lips; but here’s one who doesn’t care; he’s now on his own in a world of make-believe.
There’s always someone who will stand him a drink on the strength of the medals hanging from his threadbare coat. He remembers Dunkirk alright – he was there; but these days nobody seems to care.
‘I fought for this country!’ He shouts in anger, as he mumbles his way home through his tears, followed by laughter and derisive sneers.
Nobody cares now who fought in the war, especially when it’s just an old dypso who ends his days dreaming into a bottle.
The D.Ts are his reality; who cares about tomorrow?

But we drank from the same bottle you and I, and I’m proud to say you called me ‘Friend.’

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