In smoky rooms with dim-lit faces,
He penned his thoughts in shadowed places,
With every sip of bitter ale,
He chronicled his sordid tale.

Beneath the city’s neon glow,
He wandered streets where few would go,
Amidst the grime and endless pain,
He found his muse in the pouring rain.

Through broken dreams and weary eyes,
He saw the truth, stripped of disguise,
In every bar, in every fight,
He captured life in black and white.

A poet’s heart with jagged edges,
He lived on fate’s uncertain ledges,
And though the world may not recall,
His words stand tall, beyond the fall.