Tipsy – Poem

It’s been a lot of years since I last was “tipsy”, but this poem resulted after one such occasion in my youth. It occurred during the Alaskan break-up which can be ugly here.

 

Under  a stained doormat,

A gentlemen bug politely tipped his hat.

 

Horrors, shame!

The world’s a buttered plight. Mud’s its name.

 

Mud, gad,  is everywhere,

On your feet, on your face and in your hair.

 

Lolita is faring quite well.

But then, one can never tell.

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