Bibere venenum in auro

Seems true north is a myth for some men,
With a compass that spins,
And a map that's worn thin,
From the circles I'm travelling in.

Teeth rotten and broke.
From the toxins I choke on,
And the lies that I spit when I'm sprung.

Like a conscience that aches ,
From regretting mistakes,
But only ever after theyre done.

Be it feeble escape ,
Or to settle the shakes,
B'een an age since was all in good fun.

From hobby to habbit,
To horrible addict,
It would seem this is what I've become.