I think a dose of the bleeding obvious might not come amiss. I have to confess that some (though not all) of this is old stuff. Still, it goes with a swing. Will Lucy know what a kludgie is, or should I tell her?
Sunday Morning
Saturday night the booze slipped down like silk,
And now? By God, you wish you’d stuck to milk,
When what went down so smooth comes up so smelly.
Your mouth's a rodent's tomb, your brain a jelly,
Both eyes gummed shut. That’s good, my chickadee.
You feel. You taste. Do you really want to see
The purpled eye, the gashes on your face,
The horrid signs of how you trashed the place,
The broken window frame, the shards of glass
(You’ll bear the scars for ever on your arse),
Blood on the carpet, vomit in the kludgie,
The mangled corpse of Auntie Ethel’s budgie,
Body secretions puddled by the bed?
Of course you don’t. Much better to be dead,
To cease upon a midnight with no pain,
And never look at alcohol again.
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