Years later, Jack had come into reduced circumstance and, in a brief period of sobriety, tried a quick succession of jobs, none of which panned out.
The following is from his attempt to be the commentary-page poet (a position that as far as Google research can determine, only exists in the Philippine Islands) for the Manila Times-Picayune.
Going to the Philippines
And renting me a shack
With a corrugated tin-roof
A rusty sink over at the back
I’ll need a three-legged dog
An old Ford stuck up on blocks
A creaky metal spring bed
With a mattress up on top
I’ll rent a part time wife
Buy me a full time bottle
Get me a sometimes friend
Do things I shouldn’t oughta
Two dirty half-full glasses
On the table by the bed
Lipstick on the glasses’ rims
A thunderstorm in my head.
Going to the Philippines
And renting me a shack
Where nobody wants to know me
And I won’t be coming back.
It didn't work out, of course, and Jack resumed the only position he had ever been successful at - the prone one.
Two years later, the work of rum concluded, he was consigned to the land of the permanently prone.
A cautionary tale, indeed, in these difficult times
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*In 1927 the New York Times reported a rumor that Fawcett had been found alive and well, living in a "veritable paradise," a bountiful land "that has no owner." That was before the US got their hands on it.
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