September 18th, 2004
|01:40 pm - good christ how many pitchers of bass was that|
I have no food. I have no juice.
It's pouring out, so there's no use
In plodding downhill to the store.
I think I'd sleep a few days more
If certain cats would take a pause
From blessing paper bags with claws
(They don't listen to no groan,
Just to objects weakly thrown
And all my bedside ammo's gone.)
So bravely forth I soldier on
Making some sad compromise
With pillows over ears and eyes
I shift uncomfortably in bed
And every time I turn my head
The Anvil Chorus clangs bombastic.
In other words, I feel fantastic.
Regrettably, I can provide
But these few words to stem the tide
Of woe that you will face today;
Distance makes this the only way.
Try herding cats into a room
From which they'll not disturb your gloom.
The door do close - this should suffice
to bar them from returning thrice.
That clamor in your head address;
Water and Advil, I would guess.
Do not lament losing a day;
Recall last night's fun and think 'Yay!'
And as you contemplate the beer,
Your friends gather and send good cheer.
There once was a man named Noyes
Who went out on the town with the boys
The beer he did chug
And then barfed on the rug
And said, "Oh fuck scansion I'm going to lie down for a while."
Feel better, dear.
*continues hearting Spatch a fair bit*
So I suppose that means drinking it up with me in Hah-vahd Squah is out then, huh? Ah, well. I'm here until midday Monday if you change your mind. Cell phone number's in my journal. Feel better!
Alexander Pope with a hangover. Love it.