Breakfast of Champions

Domestic beer and cigarettes inflame my lyric flare, spark my anxious urge to create something readable, splurge into visions of sugarplums, flights of pure fancy, till I have a poem distilled in my brain. The struggle to articulate is pure and simple pleasure, making mountains out of molehills, silk purses from sows' ears, perched at my computer with my dreams and foolish wishes. I'll smoke another stogie, free a beer from the refrigerator, write another epigram to share with God knows whom; keep avoiding good nutrition and be grateful to my muse 'til they lay me cold and lifeless in my tomb!