…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.