The smell of fresh liquor lingers on his lips,
He parts them and breathes in the pungent scent of fresh human blood.
The contretemps of his past have lead him here,
His lonely eyes mock those of his victim.
The misanthropy that burns within him,
Shows through the treatment of those surrounding him,
The fuel of his sorrow.
And in the ct of being a miser,
He has he has found all hope has been lost to misery.
So he walks the streets alone,
Doomed to an eternity of insalubrious addiction.
The blight of his craving for blood,
Has made him the picturesque image of true sadness.
