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The tea is boiling on the stove,
the coffee is brewing in the pot,
the drunk is hungover,
breathe smelling like conyake and whiskey,
vodka goes straight down
when it is cold.
My tea is ready,
your tea is ready,
call the Queen of Hearts,
tell that whore,
her tea is ready.

The tall, green bottle of white whiskey,
moonshine, call it what you like,
burns the back of my throat,
my face grows hot
and my mouth and tongue go numb
with an intoxication that takes me
to a place of wonderous pleasure,
and takes away the thought of wanting to die,
suicide is not a priority anymore.

The tea is ready,
the silver kettle whistling,
calling us all to morning supper,
call the Queen of Hearts down
tell that whore,
her tea is ready.

She spiked me, she spiked me,
my tea and coffee have been sabotaged
and my stomach burns with firery white alcohol,
my eyes grow fuzzy
and the sweat breaks at the back of my neck,
and the thoughts of suicide go out the window
like a caged white bird, let go into the wild
to fly everlasting and free.

my tea is ready
excuse me.

-10-30-2013

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