An ode to Ruth

her eyes have been wetted
her back been made sore
her glance wanders now
tracing patterns upon her floor

her grace is now fading
as she wrinkles her furrowed brow
her beauty alone remains
a mockery of her now

she stamps the mud in pain
trying to bring back her youth
dark hair no longer glistens
no--no longer for Ruth

Ruth was my sister
but she grew far too fast
now mother Rude,
dad says you'll soon have passed

I once took on a saddle
thinking it'd be fun
to give you just one turn
and oh how you'd laugh when we'd run

but I would run alone
because you couldn't help but fly
no, I was never jealous old Ruth
well, maybe that's a lie

I drink.

I drink for the man who thirsts but suffers
and begs only to be kicked
I drink for the hearts that crave and long
and bear open only to be ripped
I drink for the farmer of kind deeds
clinging to juvenile proclivities
with such vigor the moonshine makes him blind
I drink for the lonely
I drink for the drunk
I drink for the sober
I drink
and I am drunk.