Old Gustave in the café
Sips his absinthe day by day;
While others swiftly move about
He slowly pours his poison out.

He's dreaming dreams in his own style,
And often, a peculiar smile
Flits across his ashen face.
Sometimes a tear will find a place

And trickle down his withered cheek;
He is so pale, so old, so weak;
Slowly his life slips away,
Old Gustave, in the café.