What golden ichor of the gods presents
Itself as cheap as paper bills in hand?
What ambrosia overwhelms the sense
And dulls all mortal pain with no demand?
His drink, the greatest friend a man could find
No elusion like the scurrying game
Memories lost as though they had a mind
Hateful earthly arms set out to maim
What other choice does any man possess
Another addiction beneath his belt
The woes of life the king does not address
Into their toxic drink the men will melt
Until their lives return they will forget.
All they will be is reflected silhouettes.
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