Fuck That Glenfiddich!
Hungover poetry.
The worst setback for the morning
Came with a bang.
The guitar was on my bed, and I!
I was on my couch!
My dog peered at me.
Dog? Oh! I don’t have a dog.
I can’t say.
I don’t know.
I felt a faint throbbing in my head
Or was it my heart?
Was it a headache or a pain from my last birth?
No.
It was a pain under my ears.
My jaws hurt. Were my hands heavy?
I can’t say.
I don’t know.
A malaise was killing me
My finger couldn’t point it out.
I needed a potion.
The discombobulation of it all
made me incapable of locomotion.
What’s with my legs?
I can’t say.
I don’t know.
The mountains were calling
Himalayas or the Andes?
I tried to reach out
But the mountains said ‘Start now
Or just go back to bed.’
Was that my calling?
I can’t say.
I don’t know.
You know there was this itch
An itch deep in my ear canal
At a place I couldn’t reach
To scratch the itch.
Can you imagine my itchy trauma
Not being able to reach an itch?
I can’t say.
I don’t know.
Oh, what a pain!
What a heavy head!
What a pricky itch!
What is this disease?
When will I be at ease?
I can’t say.
I don’t know.
And then, I saw it
I saw that demon.
That corked bottle on the table
Standing still next to a lemon.
Oh hell yeah!
I can say.
Now I know.
Fuck that Glenfiddich!
Well, if you have liked this hungover poetry, clap for it. But don’t yet go for that Glenfiddich.
