POEM # 368
NO MORE SHOOTERS
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