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.
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.