Only when his tiny daughter took his hand, his baby finger, did he begin to properly understand commitment
To the cause, a serious need to prise that very same finger away from the bottle, now more than ever
Keep those like-a-moth-to-a-flame lips safe, especially when it came to the sight of a drink, that dangerously sprightly taste for things that didn’t need to happen
Rotten to the core but he needed to choose, between slingin’ away his very last tenner – crumpled – on booze, or pick up just enough food to take them over the line,  tide them over for the time being at least
The right kind of attitude, resolute to the last, there could be no more chances, he’d done his sentence, danced with the devil that drinks
A loaf of bread and a carton of milk, should help in the long run, keep things in line
But this didn’t stop him from thinking about the addiction, non-stop, now and then making it as far as the kitchen sink, an almighty strop with himself
Fed her, bathed her too, the withdrawal slowly but surely causing his voice to meander in terrible slew, knew that he had to get around this corner before getting to be a good father again
Picked her on out of her playpen, then smiled hard, sweat beads coursing every which way, not a religious man by many a reckoning but today the fine lord had entered into his life and here he was, asking him to pray