Lisa Needs To Lay Off the Sauce

Lisa's vodka voice calls from outside, later than late, when the stars have shut down for the night, refusing boozer-sight that prevents one from tripping. Screech owl's search light, a Full-Sturgeon moon, is still much too dark, if inebriated to distinguish which cement walls are most likely to attack. Two eves past, her horse auditioned, center-stage, in the living room. He too loves a good drink. Excuse me, for I hear her knock of desperation at the door. As for Duke, the horse; not to worry, he can hold his own beer.