And sleeveless dirty t-shirts
And a fashionable Rustywhear apron
If I happen to be burning some meat.
I will drink whisky, and brandy old-fashioneds
And tequila, but probably not gin,
And the occasional 116 oz table-tapper
To make up for the sobriety of my sleep.
I will vomit every third day of drinking
For no good reason but alcohol poisoning
And something about pancreatitis
And the poor condition of my liver.
I shall sleep in the flowers of other people’s gardens
Until they poke me with a stick or other sharp object
And ask me to leave promptly and peaceably
The authorities already on their way.
I will search out free tacos and other happy hours
And sing show tunes on the airplane
And play my guitar in public places
Despite the public’s strong preference that I not.
But for now I must wear a nice jacket,
And a relatively clean shirt, and pants,
And set a good example for the children
About how to keep from falling down.
But then again, after they’re sleeping,
Or when I get away for a Rusty,
Shall I not sample the appetizer
Of my geezer days to come.
