I woke up with no hangover, but I might as well have.
Work is an irritant,
As I cover my body in non-biodegradable lather,
And sadly wonder will I ever achieve contentment,
Or am I doomed to this ellipse?
The Scottish curse,
The Irish disease,
The one-way romance with alcohol.
Pubs are my church,
Bars are my temple,
We gather together at the footrail,
And hope that the numbing toxins,
Those brewers and distillers' alchemies,
Will keep the fears at bay,
Still the anxieties,
As I get closer,
And closer to the terminal point,
With no real wisdom gained.
The bar always beckons,
The siren song of drink,
Is seductive, available,
And I ignore it as I walk home.
Today my wits being about me
Is actually desirable.
As opposed to fool awareness.
And thus another day ends,
Unlike the last.