Some Call It Beer But To Me It's Called Grog
~
A broken torpedo got wedged in my eye,
making me squint out some tea
Laughed at a submarine sauntering by,
hoagies afloat on the sea
Gathering minnows from dams ‘bout to break,
opening flood gates again
Stood midst a puddle dressed up like a lake,
watching a red herring trend
Drove to the village where parrots can sing,
lyrics in cracker crumb chords
Clarinet solos encrusted with bling,
blended with Chevys or Fords
Fell off the wagon as drunk as a dog,
staggering, swaggering tail
Some call it beer but to me it’s called grog,
others will shout out, “it’s ale”
Snuck through the door where the hairdresser sleeps,
fondled her comb and her brush
Searched for the broom that her half-sister keeps,
swept but there wasn’t a rush
Gather your hopes in a jar on the sill,
pay past-due taxes on time
Ignore this verse, it is meant as a fill,
another stanza of rhyme
So here we have it, whatever you find,
words I decided to write
Merely a world that exists in my mind,
keeping me up late at night
Hoping for meanings as words start to dance,
all to a random request
Not even this has the faintest of chance,
I think it’s time for a rest
~
Copyright ©
Chris Green
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