Bitter Dregs and the Human Condition

Molly maintains the brass fixtures and fittings as one of her offices here at the pub. The job always puts her into "the Flow," that special state where living "in the moment" makes any activity, even work, pleasant. Thus engaged, she failed to notice until it was too late that The Cynic had just stepped into the main room here at the pub. No matter what he orders, for him, it always becomes "bitter dregs." Cut off from a graceful escape, she is now stuck until another member of the waitstaff blunders in. His jaded eye captures the darker truths of the human condition, nor does it help that The Cynic so liberally vents his spleen. On this day, he returns from visiting a friend at the assisted care facility, where he seems to have picked up a great deal of ammunition. At least, he does write his observations in limerick form.

When you're little your world is a dream
Of kittens and pups and ice cream
But sadly, you grow
And you're given to know
Overwork is the normal regime.

No one escapes all the bustle
And even the lazy must hustle
To at least look the part
Though they don't have the heart
To exert a brain cell or a muscle.

Let's take heart, aging has a reward
You'll secure a nice bed on the ward
Where some twit talks to you
Like you have the IQ
Of a dead, dessicated, old gourd.

Bitter dregs make you think of "older than dirt"?