POEM # 368


Stopped in the bar just to think,

Everyone there buys me a drink.

How many shooters have I had?

Usually quiet now happy and glad,

Should I have ordered my lunch?

As shooters continue in a bunch.

The day has become just a blur,

As words I speak begin to slur.

The more I drink, I try to act cool,

Challenging all to a game of drool.

Stick in hand my shot rips the felt,

Laughter the sound, I begin to melt.

Another round of shooters too all,

Eyes so bleary, I wait for last call.

When did I walk through the door?

One more shooter will be the floor.

Bartender help me, please call a cab,

Everyone a last shooter on my tab.

Home at last, to the whirl of the bed,

No more shooters, today I will be wed.

Written by Carl Mann

The kurlman


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