She never woke with the same enthusiasm as when she went to bed.

Her thoughts never brightened as they did when she rest her head.

She never bounced emphatically in the morning sun,

As she had the night before when she said she’d have just one.

She never woke and wondered how to make the day last longer,

But just the night before she’d been begging for something stronger.

She often woke a little hazy, feeling lazy and washed out,

All things considered the night before she kept doing the twist and shout.

She thought the mornings too sunny but enjoyed her nights so bright,

Often asking, were the wines on her side or did they get into a fight?

She took a wild guess as she traipsed through the masses,

Of empty bottles, ashtrays, dirty and broken glasses.

She realised now, as the fridge lay bare,

Pale skin and tussled hair,

She might be getting old, going soft,

So she called in sick to sleep her hangover off.



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