Game Show Host

A charmless man, who's really a harmless fan

Of relieving seething demons three fingers per ardent hand

Sippin' his liquor quicker than a bic's flicker regardless that

He's been wishin' to quit the swishin' because he's an armless lad

Starts to take charge, but it's hard with a guardless jab

And a scarred heart too smart to embark on such artless plans

The suffering is smothering, he's wondering how long the darkness lasts

'Til he's struggling, crumbling, then guzzling right back where he started at

The worst thing about his drinking is thinkin' that it gets him better

When really it's bringin' his feelings right up to a heated bettor

Who's ready to sever his fingers if ever he can't get 'em

The payment he claims that he's makin' when everything is said and

Done, and that's the fun of self-medication

Exchangin' all his pain for some chemically bent elation

And it works at first but then he's left with defective ventilation

Leavin' him weak, unable to breathe, and gettin' near his expiration