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.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *