He sits in the boozer on Saturday nights

On a bar stool that he’s made his own,

And looks a bit care-worn there under the lights,

But he’s been there as long as I’ve known.

 

He wears the same suit every week when he comes,

Though it’s shabby and shiny and worn;

His teeth move around cos they’re loose on his gums,

And his shirt collar’s ragged and torn.

 

He nurses a half as he mumbles away,

Though oft times there’s no one to hear;

We can predict what he’s going to say,

For he’s said it for year upon year.

 

He talks of the old days when he had a life,

And he lived in much happier times,

In years long gone by before he lost his wife,

And when they were both young in their prime.

 

He speaks of his children, now grown and moved on,

With the grandchildren he rarely sees,

And how much he misses them now that they’re gone;

Won’t you look at these photographs please?

 

He sits in the boozer on Saturday nights,

His aroma a hint of stale pee.

With some trepidation, I pale at the sight,

For in time that old man could be me.