I’m not anti-alcohol by any means, but gone are the days when I could polish off a medium sized bottle of vodka, add a couple of beers, throw in a McDonald’s, and wake up the next morning and face the consequences. This poem is fairly self-explanatory and the word ‘whisky’ could be replaced by pretty much any alcohol with a two syllable name. It just so happens that, while it is slightly autobiographical of a bygone era, I wrote this poem while watching a friend indulge in just a little bit too much whisky. 

Note: The word ‘optional’ in this poem should be pronounce ‘opshnal’ to bring it down to two syllables.


Much whisky makes a man a mess
In optional state of part undress
As in his bloated belly press
The plunders of the day

The morning brings an end to mirth
A misery unknown since birth
As last night’s booze flows forth, a firth
From quivering lips of grey

I am painfully hungover… the back of this chair



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