Bourbon starts the day with many regrets.
Stale smells of bacon from the warming plate,
A memory of breasts. Truth, not a jest.
Drowning in comfort from cake I confess,
It’s easy to dream what I think I’ll break.
Bourbon starts the day with many regrets.
Calling to mind each and every excess,
the bacon, bourbon, boobs, coffee, and cake.
A memory of breasts. Truth, not a jest.
Woven together, a small arabesque,
randomly chosen by those who partake
Bourbon starts the day with many regrets.
Recalling whiskeys taken as a guest
requires coffee supplied in endless crates
A memory of breasts. Truth, not a jest.
When stimulants come to their conclusion
your left with forgetting, an illusion.
Bourbon starts the day with many regrets.
A memory of breasts. Truth, not a jest.
Original poem and picture by stuartcturnbull