He had the jowls of a sad hound
eyes like a frightened puppy
a bark louder than his bite and
the nervous laughter of a maniac
on a psychologically damaging kill-spree
a burst of laughter that begged like a hungry dog
for praise and approval

sought applause for quick wit
ironical quips and the generalised uncouthness
that drifted in the wake
of a misplaced childhood.

He trailed behind his alcoholism
between bars and interventions
and gigs on the local circuit
he had skill with guitars
a way with words
And a brain—
Which made him dangerous.

He had something to prove
something to sate his appetite for acknowledgement
that he had the gall, that he had balls
that he could have had it all
but for the moment
-he had fuck all

but for intellect
and the arrogance to abuse it.

Truth be told
we always loved
a good story
a dog-eared page
a dear friend
that bastard.

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