slainte

This bottle of clear spirits is the finest friend,
A handle full of wasted brain cells,
The way to ensure a perfect night’s end.

Our throats elongated, pink thin vase, we pretend
That we are bottomless, a fathomless hell,
This bottle of clear spirits is the finest friend.

Our flushed cheeks, a convoluted message we send,
All those mouths have a gravely sour, liquored smell.
The way to ensure a perfect night’s end.

With slurs and motor skills we heavily contend,
We burden other’s flesh with the stories we tell.
This bottle of clear spirits is the finest friend.

Limbs are tangled skeletal branches males ascend,
Spirit out of flesh that’s looking for somewhere to dwell;
The way to ensure a perfect night’s end.

No one is comfortable enough to break from this trend,
So many different problems that this pure liquor can quell.
This bottle of clear spirits is the finest friend,
The way to ensure a perfect night’s end.