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The Fault On Our Weekends

The city lights are the guide to one’s shrine Of bottomless shots and wandering nights The music settles in every outline Of poor judgment that makes a fool ignites. The thirst for lager and endless giggling Overshadow the bitter pill taken The desire for comfort out of mingling Only spoils prospects who are forsaken. The social call is just about to start Something boiled down or untamed may happen The impulse sets the expected apart A high time fondness is near to fasten. There’s always no tomorrow as they say But the night after causes no delay. The evening meal’s feasted among pillows Buried in layers of blanched sheets and skins The forty weight that Saturday still owes Occurs in the night when one roughly spins. The grip that is lured by forced attraction Be like swaying along a blind alley The hatred stems from unfit distraction Slow dancing is now being craved badly. The afterclap makes sound ahead sunrise With brandy and pleasant remembrances The men who give joyride and butterflies Need a break to refrain from semblances. Onto the next weekend, this may play back Guess it is each one’s favorite soundtrack.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2016

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