Oh, I know you're sorry, but it's too late, For my little child is gone. Oh, don't you dare to call it fate, That you have done so wrong. You've traded a life for that old bottle, By staggering out and under the throttle. No, don't you dare to call it fate, That you have taken another life. Then ... There's the bartender ... who "Set Up" the bait, Someday it may be his "Own Sweet Child." I can still see him fly as you hit him so hard, Your car must have knocked him 25 yard. "Oh, no," he's gone, cried out his best buddy. The ambulance came to take him away, "Oh, how I hope the law makes you pay." As the organ plays, "The Old Rugged Cross." You'll never know the hurt of "Our Loss." This poem is for all who want to drink, And I pray that it makes you "Really Think," About the cost of "A Bottle of Beer." Is it worth "A Life" that is "So Dear." So don't ever take that first "Nasty Sip." Because if you do, you may "Take Your Last Trip." ©Luann Bolinger 1985 Used With Permission All Rights Reserved By Author Mail

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