SCOTCH ON THE ROCKS

Poetry

By Richard E. Noble


He blazed that jug before his mug, then raised that prop to
the sky;
"To the glory of drink I draught this laugh, and make a
toast, no lie.
To live, to love, to be,
for you, for me,
it's we ... to eternity."
Then he downed that mug for a subtle brew.
Then a scotch, a rye,
here's mud in your eye.
A bucket of ale,
then a preacher's tale.
A month full of monks, then a vineyard of fears,
with thoughts for the seers, and buckets of tears,
for old lost friends, and forgotten years.

"A toast to you ... to be,
ah yes my friend, that we ever be.
And now before I burst at the knee,
it's off to the closet, my cause ... a pee ...
To friends, to life, to love, to all."
A sip, a swig, then bottle and all.
Then the guilt and the pain,
and a tuft of fluff for the lion's mane.
Oh bitter the man, and much he hates,
for well he knows that death awaits.

He holds that jug before his mug,
and sloshes around the assassin's slug.
Drink by drink, and drop by drop, with a barrel stave
he digs his grave.
He draws the weapon to his lips,
then pulls the trigger to his pain.
Slow and torturous this bullet's path,
"It's a horror my son, and the pain abides,
but why must you re-die my suicide."

That purple glass, that mug on high,
the one he hangs before my eye,
Will beam forever and never will it hide,
the bullet that made his suicide.
No never, ever, and forever and ever,
no never, ever will it hide,
the bullet that he used for his suicide.