Footsteps on the barroom floor
Echo his coming once more,
He quietly takes his place in line
Trembling as he searches for dimes.
On his favorite stool sits a fool,
There each morning as a rule,
Staring at bottles all in a row,
Waiting for the hangover to go.
So many youthful years wasted
Life's wild times he's tasted,
While his loved ones vainly waited
For his cravings to be sated.
The honk-tonk jukebox plays
While he waste his days away,
No longer is drinking a thrill,
He's an old drunk "over the hill".
The flashing bright neon lights
And drinking binges all night,
Lured him in to take their toll,
The price paid is his sinful soul.
His once twinkling brown eyes
Can no longer hide his disguise,
Of being a swell man about town,
All just call him "drunken clown".
Nothing matters to him anymore
As he enters another barroom door.
See the pretty bottles brightly hued?
Sit down fool -- pay the Devil his due.
©Written by: Kenneth J. Ellison 03-26-04
Song title: "Pretty Paper"
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