(For Kuppa, for those ‘quarters’ of McDowell’s Whiskey)

What is this city Called drunkenness, my friend? People tell me that I Live there now.

So if this city Does exist, it is quite strange Because all I find in it are A quite room, with a table,

A reasonably full bottle and A glass from which I am Sipping something close To forgetting.

But I then keep forgetting That to forget requires One to first remember Everything. And this

Takes forever. Time Never passes. Only I pass Through a stupor of bottles, And burn in their heat

Into something less than A shadow, falling down Those long disused roads, Where time was leaving

As it was arriving. So why Is it that I only hear you and Me laughing at something I am Supposed to forget, and did forget?

you are so prolific!

And so very very good. city of drunkeness ... is a great line