Back from the pub, and not feeling too well,
I lay on the floor, waiting till I could
Write lines of some kind, feeling like in hell,
But sonnet must be written, in my blood.
I’m feeling cold now, heating’s off, I should
Just persevere, till fourteen lines are writ.
I think that my behaviour was not good.
Had a good night, but mixed my drinks a bit.
Had Guinness, red wine, white wine, lager… it
Hurts me to recall this, hurts me to tell;
I’m the sickest guy in my neighbourhood,
And basically I feel rather like shit.
I was sick in the kitchen sink. Not well
At all. Oh to be sick again, I would.
Wed 12 Dec 2007
PS - This was written after a long and drunken works Christmas meal and pub crawl
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