Drunk

One more drink and just my essence remains. My speech is owned by another and my body moves beyond my control. I can smell my ego and taste my vileness. I walk the road of champions and fight the fight of heroes. Another drink and my fists are iron ingots, my prowess unrivalled. I am what every woman desires and every man envies. I am Saturday night dancing, without the Sunday morning blues. One more drink and I am a friend to the world . And, as my ripple affects everything around me, I become complete. No shyness, no redeeming qualities. The bull to my harem. So why am I bleeding and broken? My words were strong and my stance even stronger. Yet here I sit, undone like a cork from a bottle. Where was my prowess, my touch of steel? Lied to by the contents of my glass, I am bitter. I paid my money, where was my victory? The taxi home, the swollen eye. My ego, ballooned at the bottom of a glass, deflated by the prick of a fist. And my voice, once baritone in timbre, has become timid in frame. The morning wakes with screeming echoes of the night before and phone calls from laughing hyena's that I'll meet at work on Monday morning.