or maybe I am full of shit, caffeine, and a whole night of unresolved issues.
You drink women like cheap boxed wine,
And trust me it's never worth the hangover.
They pour fountains of that generic combination
of yeast, sugar, and water; still, it does the trick.
They love all the way down your throat until even
the trickles cease, but with a little stale cigarette smoke,
the sharp, tart flavor may linger in a stain on your shirt.
It has never been a habit, though a regular occurance,
for you to pick up a glass, or two, perhaps to spite
your last. The bitter finish never fails to disapoint.
And... when I figure out how it ends, I'll let you guys now. For now this is it.