i swear, last thing i remember
is tellin' the bartender
to gimmee the strongest fuckin' stuff he's got.
wanted a punch in the gut, see?
wanted to feel it in the morning.

now it kinda feels like i'm sinkin'
faster and faster
into this goddamn wood stool,
leanin' on the counter
and hicc-
hicc-
hiccuping the night away.
guess you could call this
my personal phisopholee..
i mean my philoso...
some damn thing.

far as i'm concerned,
this is what every man needs--
a half-flat bottle of booze
to wallow in,
and the only thing keepin' you from goin' totally under
is the thought of yer missus back home.

times like these, i feel like a typewriter
with one key stuck--
hammer at it all you want,
but you'll never say what you really mean.

05/01/2011