Liquor Lips
Poured from purloined bottles of poison,
Whose drip is but a crimson crash,
Of whisky washing my lips which moisten,
With a humid dew of drowning cash.
From the pocket pours the absinthe green;
Tourmaline trash tossed atop the torrent,
Which washes over with drunken mondegreen,
Slurred words whispered with neither wish nor warrant.
To drown in glass filled with vicious avoirdupois,
Whose weight is watched by the wrap of a whipping boy,
Is but death by pint and shots of strife,
Sipped away in a sinking sea of life.
Spare me of my liquor lips,
Whose tongue-licked wish is sips,
Of that which drowns me drunk,
As I, the captain, sink in a ship I've sunk.
Copyright © B. Joseph Fitzsimons | Year Posted 2017
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