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.