Half A Shot of Sick Puppy I’ll add to the mix
When I’m upside down on a two-legged bar stool.
The bartender within me knows that I don’t drink
Yet I’m intoxicated by thoughts that I think.
I could blame that on current events like a fool.
Is all that I am drunk on an effective fix?
Half asleep to the counter of what people say
In the background, I am then aware of not all
There is to be revealed in this dark, smoke-filled room.
If it were not a swamp, all we’d need is a broom.
Could that ever become so? Would that be my call?
Chaos is a perception. It is not the way.
Since I’m one of a tribe, I am doomed to imbibe
What I don’t know I’m thinking. My drinking is such
That it does medicate me in maddening ways.
What should be the reality has become haze.
Could the fix in the mix be to not expect much?
That would be but the best thing my soul could prescribe.