Hmm, why is it, I wonder, that there are so many poems about drinking? And so many of them sound like
the voice of experience is speaking? Not this one. And anyway, how do they make 'em rhyme when they're p-----?
Under The Affluence of Incohol
I go to the fridge looking for some words to drink.
I call my friends.
"The pub! I'll bring the thesaurus." Agreed.
A stubbie. Exchange a few similes.
Mix a few metaphors.
Hey, my friends say, "your slurds are starting to whirr.
You're under the affluence of incohol."
"No way," I reply, "I'm jober as a sudge".
My friends say I'm angling the queen's minglish.
I foe a threw insults back.
They call me a posspit.
They say "you know, Mir and better fours don't mix!"
What would nay though?
I have a bew more fears.
Febore I know it, the club is posing.
I'd stunk my last drubbie.
"Where's the posest club?" I ask.
"New hose? Let's wind fun."
We stralk along the wheat.
A cur lease par barses pie.
"Ello hoffy sir" I call out, ta rick you lately. "Looking for mubble trakers?"
The cur lease par sterns and tops.
A blan in moo gets out and talks ooh ward me.
He holds out a rape tea corder.
"talk into this please until I say stop".
He is forking tunny.
"Could you gay that a sen?" I say.
He pea-reats simhelf.
"Fot the wuck moo do yean, pork into this tlease? Eak spoper prenglish!"
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm arresting you for having a spoonerism level above the legal limit of 0.08 per hundred words. You will have to accompany me to the station."
Now I'm in sheep dit.
What started out as a bite with the noise, because of no fear in the bridge,
has nurned Terry, Terry vasty.
In the norming, I have to gee the sudge.
I have a very whore said.
"How do you plead?"
"Got nilty, whore onya" I say.
Whoops. He is pot rimnessed.
"I sentence you to four months silence. Officer, take away his thesaurus. You will be eligible for a dictionary no earlier than two months from now".
Dot will I woo? Fry mends won't mork to tea. I'm din is grace.
Cow will I hope with more funths of
Copyright; David Peetz
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