Thursday, August 29, 2013

V. 2, #153: August 29, 2013

My friends got old, have given up their drinking,
and do not care to tie one on with me.
They're tired of coming home on Fridays stinking,
then sleeping off their hangovers till three;

Nobody wants to dance, smoke cigarillos,
and get in fights with every local tough;
they'd rather turn in early, hug their pillows,
and tell their wilder friends they've had enough.

Gone are the days when we were young and winsome,
with livers fresh as daisies on the loam;
now if I want to paint the old town crimson,
I guess I'll have to do it on my own.

The streams of youth must trickle to their ends;
so raise this lonely glass: to absent friends.

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