Scarred hands

Blade bitten and calloused

Grasp a dripping mug with

A dead man's grip

In the hours before dawn

Liquor chases away the night

Terrors, the screaming and

Cries that follow a successful


Too early to return home

Can't bear to face the

Questioning stares and

Knowing looks

They can't understand

Someone has to run the show

Bring the bread

Be the Highwayman

It's not their families starving

Not their children's pleading

Eyes They have jobs

No right to look down their noses

The rest of the bitter liquid fell

Down his throat the coin hit the

Table and he disappeared in

A swirl of a black cloak