Thirst.

When I think of all the water wasted, taps I left to run, the washing out of glasses thrice when one time would have done.

The water fights in days of old I used pint after pint, the times in summer showering cold against the muggy night.

If neighbours trying to keep up must wash a car too much, then I can see the water run and I might shrug and such.

All the ways in which I sat and let it run away, not bothering to think that I may need it back one day.

If you could see me thirsty now, in need of just a drink, you may too have your regrets and you might stop and think.

If I had saved that which I spilt, regret would not exist, and my dry bones would live once more, cracked lips with moisture kissed.

It's too late now for me to live, I've gone a drip too far, I'm weak and thirsty, dry and spent, and asking for my ma.

The moral of my tale is this: look forth to looking back. For one day too you may be in the Red and not the Black.

Live your life as is your want, enjoy but do be nice, try save a little here and there, as squander is a vice.

Do all this as best you can, but hear a wise man say, never pity anyone, it comes to you one day.

The above is my first clumsy attempt at poetry. I wrote it while my other half was on the bog so it didn't take that long. Simplistic rhyming scheme aside I think it's ok, but then I have literally no fucking idea.