The strawberry breezer wasn’t really a breeze

She felt queasy but then brushed it off

as imagination.

The screwdriver screwed her head

And made it all full of wool

She realized with dread.

Now, how about a Mudslide

She thought as she tripped down the steps

She was ever so muddled, despite the chocolate flavor she loved.

The Margarita mmmm so delicious

And fiery and strong

But it rubbed salt in her wounds, so it must be wrong.

She eyed the wine next

But there he stood and mocked.

You won’t forget me, I won’t dim out on any pretext

The spirits can’t save you, my girl.

He held her arm and gave her a twirl.

She must be imagining him,

As he smiled at her through all that fog

She told herself before she passed out and slept like a log.

P.S. for the worried reader or two – No, she didn’t have so many drinks in a day. It’s just the poet’s imagination at work 😉