The ghost of Christmas past holds golden court for the pleasures. 

Spinning cocaine yarns and bedding ivy league's treasures.

The centre stage applause lapped up with supreme measures

of whisky calling to flight crowned with the protagonist's feathers.

The ghost of Christmas present spent time bitter in your house, did you dream the same?

You gave sanctuary  stroking the proud mane of great fame.

When it was healthy and fun and you were not intimidated by insane

acts that bred the unabated exuberance that fell unguarded into self blame.

The ghost of Christmas future sits on a park bench

Toying with matted hair, eyes watering with the stench

of gangrenous memories filling a deepening trench

of longing for brief respite with any faceless wench.