I woke up this morning with fur on my tongue
And my cranium splitting asunder.
My stomach churned gravely, my eye sockets stung,
My sheets were bespattered with chunder.
I lurched to the kitchen on gelatine legs
To quaff several glasses of water.
I longed for the strength to cook bacon and eggs
But my migraine would give me no quarter.
What happened last night? Was I rude or polite
As I ordered my twenty-fifth drink?
Did I write any cheques? Did I call up my ex?
I must start from the start. Let me think . . .
I was sitting alone at the Cambridge Hotel,
Having lost a week’s wages at poker.
I was trying to settle which organ to sell,
Being broke but about to be broker.
I’d bourbon and Cokes till I maxed out my tab,
Then I bought double scotches on Visa.
When the barmaid suggested she call me a cab,
I’d a lean like the Tower of Pisa.
“No need for a takshi,” I said, somewhat slurred,
As I stumbled out into the city.
“It may be the case that my vision is blurred
But be thankful you’re finally pretty.”
What happened last night? Did I get in a fight?
(We know the provocateur booze is.)
Or does a mere fall, instead of a brawl,
Account for my multiple bruises?
Revived by fresh air, I’d a pint or two more
At the Bristol, but staff turned rejective.
I treated the bouncer who showed me the door
To a stream of my choicest invective.
Then I found a new hat in a bright orange cone
And down Cuba Street’s sidewalks I revelled.
I went singing such ditties as “Molly Malone,”
Obnoxiously drunk and dishevelled
My subsequent actions (I’m sure asinine)
Are sadly beyond recollection.
I pray that no footage is posted online
For sober, diurnal inspection.
What happened last night? Now the dawn is too bright
As it seeps through the crack in a shutter.
The slightest of sounds is a thunder that pounds
In my head streaked with filth from the gutter.
What happened last night has me feeling contrite.
From all drinking I’ll henceforth abstain.
Well, there’s Bill and Kate’s wedding, the work do I’m dreading,
But after that, never again.