-The Sad Sacks of New Years-

Discovered on two cocktail napkins in my coat pockets. Oddly, the rhythm nearly matches 'God Rest ye Merry Gentleman'

Among the happy revelers there sat a man so grey,
of indeterminate race and certain middle age.
He nursed a beer, his fifth I hear,
-and never glanced away.

Until I spoke he never turned, but after he did say
'my life is almost over, but I hope you liked this day.'
I brought champagne right to his hands,
and pressed for a happy thought.
He would not be prodded, he's a sad sack that won't be taught

Two minutes to the great ball drop,
and I wait with all my warm ones.
He clasps my hand and shuffles off
before the countdown's due.
If I think what he is thinking now, I'd shake my head in two.