Whiskey Sour

-'-

This is sort of a hodgepodge structurally. Also, I want to point out that I do mean "down," not "drown." I know if I do not clarify that then I am going to get people telling me that I made a typographical error. (However, if you find any typos, please let me know.) So, to the poem part:

-'-

Order another whiskey sour

Down the pain hour by hour

--

Fight fire with fire

You know what they say

But fire feeds fire

And today's not your day.

--

Bring a change about your person

But it doesn't matter, you'll only worsen

--

And it doesn't really matter

How closely I watch the fill lines

Because we'll all still hear the inevitable

-splatter-

Soaking the little pile of limes

From all those beers you had earlier.

--

There weren't even any flies to brush away

(There sure as hell were a lot of people, though.)

No more friends, no more job

But hey!

You've got a Libre-

No need to sob.

--

And, look!

(If you can open your eyes)

The cliché from the book-

Your wife, she cries.

--

Grumble and stumble past her up to your room

(Because someone was nice enough to take you home last night)

Close the curtains and door to trap in the gloom...

Ignore the Sun, ignore her plight.

--

Oh, you're sorry, yes, but it's too late.

You know it.

The disposal chugs yesterday's leftovers

And a dish breaks.

The buzzer goes off on the dryer

You smell the hot iron and hear the clicks of the clasps

And now you feel the silence

--

Oh, it's too late.