You know it’ll hurt,
When you tell the tale,
Now then, too,
But the bruise sting—
That’s more the fail,
Got into a fight,
Drunk as a horse,
Got into a row,
Fight like its forced,
Seeing un-straight,
Slurping bubble brain,
That much vodka,
Never a-fucking-gain,
A swing and a miss,
On toes made of soup,
Too much there,
And down into the goop,
Of vomit and piss,
Yours is fine,
A loose spin,
Acid burp brine,
Headaches all the time.
You swore you’ll never drink this much,
Can’t go downing a bunch,
But punch drunk you are,
And punch drunk you’ll find,
A special place in hell,
For those who can’t even make up their mind.
Lost a fight to the liquor,
Lost a fight to the mob,
Lost a fight to your fucking job.
When the weakness is there—
A drink to make you not care.
And on the floor,
A hangover is only fair.
—
Special thanks to: Melissa Potter
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Want to read something longer by me? How about a whole novel!
