Absinthe

Old Gustave in the café

Sips his absinthe day by day;

While others swiftly move about

He slowly pours his poison out.

He's dreaming dreams in his own style,

And often, a peculiar smile

Flits across his ashen face.

Sometimes a tear will find a place

And trickle down his withered cheek;

He is so pale, so old, so weak;

Slowly his life slips away,

Old Gustave, in the café.