he swigs an ounce of vodka
and hands his cigarette between his dried lips
another day, no images to go along
his stories are unwritten
time passes and he just can't live up
to writer's expectations
and points a gun
that swallows his face
into solid oblivion
No more drunken worries
or articles about new experiences
just the rotted blood that seemed to cover his carpet floor
No more cheap whores
or borrowing money from friends
Another day unnoticed
the typewriter paper starts to bend
but finally a cop burst through the door
and covers his nose while he stares at the floor
his favorite writer now dead
put a bullet to his head
so he filed his body in
but took his crumpled papers out of the waste basket
and published them
another day passes
more awards granted
if only he knew
how much his fans flew
all over the world
to remorse at his grave
every year on his birthday
Now that he's gone
he'll always be remembered
as that famous guy
who died in a snowy Decemeber
 
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