The Grey Goose

Goose bumps rise when the goose flies by
Swelling its grey, ashen wings in the grey, pallid sky
The dank, dirty wings block blessed, hopeful rays of sun
He won’t fly north ‘till the bottle’s fully done
Parched drinker left desperate for another drop
Head spins of ghostly echoes pleading him to stop
And younger eyes know too well this parable
Their fates inevitably invariable
And when the goose ascends, it carries but one thing
A taunt his mournful wail does sing –
“Another wasted night;
Another wasted life”