This is not me, the one I professed to be,
In the foothills, where I imbibed liquor,
Lovingly pilfered from my grandfather's cupboard.
Then proceeded, in my stupor, to wade through the river.
This is not me, but a mere apparition,
And distant cousins say, "How unhealthy he looks!"
They pray upon the pallor of my face,
But it's always the inside they overlook.
This is not me, pressurized in the mausoleum of my dreams,
Or undressing behind transparent screens.
I'm not the one I professed to be,
When I was younger and I was free.
