…and having moved on, where to go

His active brain just did not know

And so, he tried to think a while

An hour passed and then a smile.

He`d take up writing, yes, he would

Able, or not, deciding he could

And so, he took his brain and quill

Then sat for hours, thinking still.

The page was bare, and hunger called

At lack of progress, he was appalled

But after lunch he did decree

The page would fill, just wait and see.

The lunch was long, the wine did flow

Refusing top-ups, he got slow

And so, he slept all afternoon

Finally woken but far too soon.

His head was sore, his own fault, true

But nausea called, twas to the loo

Where all his sorrows left his gut

More care in what goes in he`ll put.

No words he`d writ, no words at all

This writing lark was not a ball

He couldn`t put the thoughts together

Drunkenness made it heavy weather!

So, he would try another day

To put on paper things to say

And nauseous still, he went to bed

To rest his unproductive head.

©JRW2021…Writing when drunk.