Best Drunkard Poems
My drunkard muse can be a curse.
Pouring shots full of poetry,
craving a sober history.
Tipsy rhymes reverb in reverse,
so ink's teetotal in free verse.
Verse 1
Epitaph for a Shy Guy
He spoke in secrets ,shadows said so sweet,
A murmur,muted,on the main street.
His silence screamed a story,softly,slow,
A secret sparkle scarcely seen to glow.
The quietest voice was quote,we carefully
quote it still,
His peaceful presence,a perfect,peaceful
perfect pill.
Verse 2.
Epitaph for the Baadjievanger (1)
He snared,the swift,sly,silver-tongued
salesman,
Who wove his webs, winning with wit,when
the world began.
His dreams were a dream, a dazzling dreadful
disaster,
He caught all the cash,moving closer,then
faster.
The final fool fell for fate's false flatter,
His promises proven dust, do they even
matter?
Baadjievanger-A hanger-on,a scammer,opportunist, trickster
Verse 3.
Epitaph for the king of Bling
Here lies a life lined with lovers and
loudness,
A silver sky sparkling several sounds of
stunning soundness.
He wore gold gleaming,his soul's silver song,
But glitter's gone,grandeur's gone,a glimmer
gone gone.
The final flash has faded,a silent, sober
state so swift,
His most mighty magnificence,a memory's
miserable myth.
Verse 4.
Epitaph For the Great Tycoon
A power prince,he piled profits past
the planet's peak,
He bought bank buildings and a billion
bank notes for a break,.
His grip on gold,greatest of governments,
gloomed so grand,
But all his stocks and shares now sleep
beneath the same sand.
He made millions and a mountain of material
money,
Yet mortal making means memory's most
melancholy morning.
Verse 5
Epitaph for a gangster
Here lies a life lived fast and loud,
A silent shadow in the subway street crowd.
His guns are silent,glory's grave,
A kingpin's kingdom nothing could save.
The darkest deeds now dust and dream,
only the diamond death did secretly seam.
Verse 6
Epitaph for a Drunkard
He drank the day,he drained the darkest
dram,
A storm of spirits, slurring slam,
He found his freedom in the fluid flow,
His journey's joke, the bottle's bitter
blow.
The final bar is closed,the tab is settled low,
He's now not near the nectar nor the glass's
glow
My husband is a drunkard and abusive
Fuming……
Fight is a daily bread in my marriage,
I also lost a tooth in the process,
My body is mountain of bruises,
Blue-yes are like permanent makeup on my face,
I concluded that marriage is good for nothing,
He come home drunk in the middle of the night,
Even if the food is prepared and on the table,
He will wake me to sit right in the dinning to watch him eating,
Eating until he finish,
He will just speak a stupid things and force me to answer,
I answer or not answer the fight is on and beating went on,
I am the music in the ears of my neighbors,
Not when it is a payday for my husband,
He will push me here and there until i become angry,
Then the whole salary will be spent pleasing friends,
Until too little is left he will remember to come back home,
I am a poor woman but my husband is working for good salary,
I survive by the handouts from my mother,
Too sour, horrible and terrible,
But when he is not drunk he is little better,
When drunk, he is bad and even worse,
Everyday tears left a permanent mark on my face,
Stress and BP is finishing me off,
Each time I conclude to end this abusive relationship,
The obstacle is the children of the bitter relationship,
Back to forth is the same to me and I’m confused,
So much more bad to say about this relationship,
…Burst into cry, tears eroded…..
The Drunkard
Great minds drink together
I drink a little not that much
I love my bottle more than any of my girlfriends
Even my mother knows that
I am a drunkard, a professional one
I love to drink
I have this kind of relationship with my bottle
Forged for a long time...
I am a drunkard, I drink a lot, and yes I do
No woman can take me away from my bottle
I drink, that’s what I was born for
Let me sip and forget tomorrow
For I am a drunkard, all I know is my bottle
There is no betrayal in drinking
This state I love, were I am at par with my soul
Where I feel like I am the king of the world
I am a drunkard; I dance sometimes when I am drunk
I sing more than any choir when I am drunk
I am a drunkard and I am in love with my bottle
It will stay that way, until kingdom come
For I am a drunkard and a professional one for that matter
Written by Tawona Ranganawa
Read more at: http://www.poetrysoup.com/member_area/submit_poems.aspx
Once in the village of Daka in Burkina Faso,
Lived Koussé the incorrigible drunkard
Very popular was he that his presence was necessary
In all the ceremonies and feasts and meetings,
Wifeless and childless and houseless and penniless was he
But was feared and respected and admired by all.
He is sharp tongued and short tempered
And knows all the secret and history of everyone,
I shall never die till I’ve revealed all your abominations,
And witchcraft and adulterous acts! He’d say
Go away Koussé! You’ve drunk your brain
And chewed your sense!
Yes! I’ve nothing but my senseless boneless rotten baldhead.
He died one rainy midnight lonely and miserably
With a calabash full of alcohol beside his corpse,
Koussé is gone! Some shouted and danced;
All the hidden secrets and history and abominations
Still remains in the village of Daka up till this day.
Read more at: http://www.poetrysoup.com/member_area/submit_poems.aspx
I drink until I drop
While he cheats and get a drop (drop- STI)
Where bottles are emptied I am found
Find him where condoms are filled
And zipped are undone
I drink, flirt and blackout
While he bumps, grind and passout
Weekends I watch football
While he figures out
as to whom to empty his ball
Social networks are his strong hold
Whilst mine is to grab the cold
My lies are easily detectable
His are barely discernible
The point here is that, there is absolutely
No point to be made
Just an inebriated poet
With a biro.
The demon grog
lets loose the hog,
and nastiness comes by,
alcohol brings out the troll,
And a grumpy drunkard cries. Don
Read more at: http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/alcohol_494048
Sitting on a park bench watching the children play
Lost and alone how does he make it through the day
A bottle by his side that’s hidden from eyes that see
Wishing the day would end but no one hears his plea
Homeless by choice and a drunkard by trade
His mind in turmoil and his heart so dismayed
Sad and alone the man’s life needs some reprieve
The man gets up slowly he’s decided to leave
The worry and misery has gotten too much
He misses his children and his wife’s daily touch
They died in a car wreck running from the abuse
His drinking was to blame along with a very short fuse
He walked away from the bench with a tear in his eye
He’s at his wits end so he gives death a try
No one will miss him or at least that’s what he thinks
He’s merely a homeless, beaten down man that drinks
He runs into the street screaming and yelling it’s the end
But before he got hit an Angel God did send
He was knocked to the ground saved by Gods grace
When the shock wore off he recognized the face
The face of the Angel was that of his wife
She was sent at that moment to save the mans life
She told him she forgave him it was part of Gods plan
She said she loved him dearly and would see him again
As fast as she appeared she was gone with the wind
The man broke down crying for the Angel God sent
He realized he was loved the drinking fogged up his mind
He was going through life as though he was blind
At that very moment he got up from the street
Dusting off his clothes he’s no longer in defeat
He threw down the bottle and thanked God above
For sending an Angel the one he did love
So now when he sits to watch the children play
He reads his Bible to help get him through the day
Now God’s by his side and he lets the world see
That God saved a wretch and God heard his plea
Behold, Ghalib,
I am drunkard
But I didn’t drink
in your God’s house
Behold, Iqbal,
I am drunkard
But not disbeliever
in where your unholy wine lives
Behold, Faraz,
I am drunkard
but fully conscious
In where your God is safe
Behold, Wasi,
I am drunkard
Not in heaven
But in the world- The God’s tavern
Oh, Ghalib! Behold,
I am drunkard
In the wine, I live
And in me, the wine lives
Because we are merged
As the almighty One.
©Mahtab Bangalee
5th January, 2025
Chattogram
l° see him dance with his heart
It supports him more than his legs would
His smile, genuine to the word
And, its a smile to the whole world
In him l° see a free man
Maybe for the moment
His slippers barely perform its duty
Whether decorative or protective
His shirt
You may slap ?e for using the word, shirt
Yet, he adorned it with pride
Visibly with a bottle of Gulder
That should be his 5th
Don't ask ?e if l° was counting
From his behaviour, l°t won't be any less
He is a world of his own
At least for the moment
His eyes bribed by alcohol
Has refused to perform its duties
Like the a Nigerian Officer
They are open, but that's all
This man here thinks of no house
Nor does he fancy any car
l° doubt if he ever dreams
Perhaps only of his merry life
In him a see the simplicity of life
The very nonchalance of existence
l° would sometime imitate him
For whatever the world is worth
This feeling is better experienced than written
about.
l° choose to call him the drunkard
Who lives like life is a passing privilege.
I was never a drunkard,
my life made me look awkward
and i no longer enjoyed sitting in my yard.
i will wonder all day looking for something hard.
a cold beer made from the berries from the orchard.
made me feel a little harbored but less restored.
And so i wondered
to the streets of our old town.
from one to another and for nothing i searched.
maybe for something to make me feel a little down
and fill my now upset stomach yearning for something strong.
a few strides down the aisle ,my feet follow the beats of an old song.
in here there are men and women dancing,
and some have bottles in their mouths swallowing,
at the counter i order some cold water ,
a few sips and am feeling a little hotter,
and oh this water tastes like the berries in my orchard,
but the music and the wails makes it more refreshing.
a few more hours in the dance floor am swirling ,
and hour after hour my little restraint was freeing,
as i danced for song after song,
i felt this was the place i belong
but all this did not last for long
as i collapsed on the floor out of exhaustion.
I woke up swallowed in guilty ,
to home i ran quickly,
and to my family i lied easily,
As usual i did my chores neatly,
an as evening came i felt thirsty ,
and as i trekked down the hill i longed for that place.
The Rhapsody of the Drunkard
It is hard to say in a dazed look
When the heart is lost and confused,
When it becomes dizzy looking for love
And the toilet at the same time,
In a dingy, dirty, damned place called, “life”
And holding his stomach,
The vomit spews out of mouth
Like a bursting water fountain,
Hold your breath and you might just find peace,
When the head pounds away,
And the mind starts to relax.
Light a cigarette,
Smoke,
Breathe,
Die.
Tanka 6
I heard a drunkard
an empty bottle in hand
shouting “I want to”
under dim light corner edge
of the bar “I want to die!”
Heaven's drunkard is the butterfly,
Tipsy on flowers, Mr. flutter-on-by:
Papier-mache wings wafting along,
He flies on currents of invisible song.
He could stop but the flowers are so many,
Beckoning with pastel faces of plenty;
At night he dreams of hot-house bouquets,
And dances with them, a fine polonaise.
.
Every calibration I do,
Blur to emerge the one weirdo.
Every navigate does syntax,
Oh, so higher at parallax.
I creep with my scornful envy,
And I know why they do beauty?
Because of an anticlimax,
Oh, so higher at parallax.
All gassing awkward in my brain,
Forever missing you the green.
Fill in my cephalothorax,
Oh, so higher at parallax.