• I drank from a glass,
    That was,
    Never full,
    Only slightly furnished,
    To one-third it’s max,
    I peered down at my cup,
    Then I looked to my side,
    And saw a rich man,
    With a glass gorged up to the brim,
    I felt envy become me,
    As I stared at the man,
    Who was grinning,
    And laughing,
    And content,
    While I sat hunched,
    All alone,
    At the end of the bar,
    With a cup filled one-third it’s max,

    I wore no suit,
    No fancy attire,
    And my hair was frizzled and split,
    My teeth rotten yellow,
    My breath just the same,
    With mixed scents of smoke, beer, and the streets,
    My eyes were down,
    Never looking up,
    And my head,
    Was much the like,
    My shoes torn and small,
    My ripped pants,
    I had found,
    On a fence,
    My shirt,
    Not a shirt,
    But just a badly stitched sheet,
    From a bed,
    I had seen,
    In the dump,

    And so,
    As I looked,
    At me,
    And the man,
    I felt anger rise up through my chest,
    Not anger at the man,
    Who was full cup worthy,
    Nor anger at the drink the cup,
    Or the one who poured it,
    But anger at myself,
    Who is only one-third full worthy,
    For not being full cup worthy