What's this windmill semblance of reality?
Who pays for this flight of fancy
When life faces its own mortality
And bets on the restful roses are plenty?
The bottle is the reflection of a man
Who chases his own ghost;
The simple error of his plan,
He cannot be both guest and host.
The contempt shows in his eyes
And his quest is squandered
On those lovin drunken lies
That have killed places his heart wandered.
It is a dirty dream, tainted with hate,
That leads him to fear
The love he cannot captivate,
The words he cannot utter to hear.
If he played the fool for love,
He died a fool for pain,
Never seeing, what he's made of
Could end this rendful rain.
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