with wispy sobs, now uncontrolled,
as dreams of youth come rolling back,
reminding of success I lack,
of accolades I once foretold.
I sit and wallow in the cold,
my wine glass full of crimson gold;
for this my spirits have the knack,
the red wine blues.
Events, in fuddled states, unfold,
the play-by-play I must behold,
another sip, my mind goes black,
I spill a bit as hands go slack-
I think I'm getting far too old
for red wine blues.