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A goblin, a horrid little creature, with a face of greeny brown._Huge, hairy eyebrows that
Remember at Christmas


Guy Cullen

A grumpy old sod with a soft centre.

He sits and he stares at the faded old photos,
The second drink held in his hand,
The memories surround him, his life now confounds him,
Is this how it’s all meant to land?

Is this life’s reply, as the years pass him by?
The third drink now already gone,
In quiet contemplation of emancipation,
From those now dead and passed on.

As the loneliness surges through feelings and urges,
The fourth drink now a memory,
As the darkness takes hold and the memories unfold,
The pain from his dark history.

The phone doesn’t ring and no carollers sing,
As the fifth drink follows the last,
No well-wishers call as the first snowflakes fall,
His loneliness empty and vast.

His will it is broken, the lies left unspoken,
The sixth drink allays all the fear,
Of solitude left, by the lost and bereft,
The punishment harsh and severe.

For now is the time, for the blessed and Devine,
The seventh drink softens the view,
As haziness falls and drunkenness calls,
The distance between me and you.

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