At times I'm lavished and at others empty
In some I'm content though often feel missing
My cup overfloweth, yet bone dry are parts that are key
I look to the barmaid, but again she passes me
Drink what I have to forget what I don't
Hope that enjoyment of what I have means I won't
Forget what I'm yearning, and wrapped up tight waiting for
Is my patience a virtue, or do I wait for scraps on the floor?