That Godly Bottle

Sit back in your
Villainous chair,
And think quietly with
That subtle smirking stare.

On the table rests the bottle
Marked with dirt and grime,
And not far away its shorter
Bretheren of conscientious slime.

Together you three form
A cunning, cruel alliance,
Stemming from the reaches
Of your sinister defiance.

Pour a drink and
Sip it slow,
Indulge yourself in
That luscious liquid's flow.
Down your throat into
The pit of hell
Where guilt you
Know all too well.

Fill the glass once again and
Drain it faster than before.
You're a weak worthless slave,
An obediant submissive whore.

The glass has become a hindrance
So rid yourself of it now,
For the bottle has become your god.
Sip, then gulp, then kneel, then bow.

Now remember the days of old
When you took a mighty charge,
When you, and only you,
Were the active force at large,

(You had no one and nothing left to praise.)

Remember them in length
And appreciate them much,
For the future is dangerously
Dependent on that crucially crippled crutch.

More becomes less,
Highs become low.
Perhaps whisky was indeed
The better way to go.