Wallace had an earful for me, 

This morning when I woke up, 

He was bounding up and down, 

And burying me in bedsheets, 

With no thought for my glum and squalid frown. 

“We wrote the book of rapscallions, 

Only the night before, 

This calls for a celebration,”

He says, 

“Let’s go and get fucked up.”

Exhausted, staring at the morning rising up above my head,

Like a dusty, dry and desert sun, 

That makes me feel that we’re already dead. 

I grab him by the ear, 

And spin him from my aching bed, 

I lift his body two feet clear, 

And slam him right into the floor, 

“Get out, go on, get out with you, 

Don’t let me hear no more.”

Please God just let me alone, 

Tell my parents I have died, 

From this bed I’ll rise no more.

That’s what the Devil, drink, will do, 

Try to murder all your friends, 

Or vomit, kick or scream on them, 

Even when you’ve got your happy head. 


One thought on “Hungover

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