The Samaritan held the line while I got pissed again,
He was a patient man, it has to be said,
And as I searched for the light at the end of the bottle,
I'm sure, I heard a word or two of what he prayed.
It was a rickety stool with a precarious balance,
But the rope was sturdy on the overhead beam,
I felt safe in the warmth of its embrace,
Secure in the knowledge that life is but a dream.
I lit my last cigarette and inhaled on it deeply,
It rolled down my throat with an effortless slide,
I watched the smoke curl from my nostrils and lips...
Man... that almost left me satisfied.
I lowered my head and I looked down at my feet,
They seemed reluctant to step off the stool,
And I looked at the bottle that I held in my hand,
That had captured me so in its ridicule.
Then a ghostly voice whispered into my ear,
'Are you having the second thoughts of a coward?'
'Step off the stool, you measly little shit,
'There's no turning back. You can only go forward.'
And I closed my eyes and I listened to the choir,
Singing their dirge as my epitaph,
And I took my last swig as I emptied the bottle,
And the light shone through in a paragraph.
'I have sung your laments, I have sung your psalms,
'And I have tried so hard to be your friend,
'Now you've come to your crossroads and must make your choice'
So spoke the bottle that I held in my hand.
I closed my eyes then and bowed once more, my head,
And my tears, they flowed like proverbial piss,
And I wondered how far away the floor could be?
As I stepped off the stool into the abyss...
And the Samaritan still held the line open in case,
A trace could be made on the incoming call,
And that, I must say, is how I come to write this page...
Lest, I wouldn't be here at all!