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A Short Poem by an Alcoholic;

Some words for that warm feeling when the booze hits you?

“Happy Hour”.

Because that’s about how long it lasts,

before the last train to Blackoutville starts chugging along,

towards innocent tomorrow mightily and relentlessly,

as all good trains, destined for the tracks they live on,

are built for, and little but graciously loved for by the best!

End *passes out*

 

 

 

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