Here's another poem I wrote (it's too bad it's 15 lines: 15-liners blow donkey balls, tho I can't actually prove giving head to an Ass is bad) a minute ago--like literally; Sonoma Cutrer is my muse I guess, tho I feel that statement is really blah--I wld hate for someone to think I celebrate alchohol as muse:

Fucking-Up In A Tub

Death chuckles.  The living
Sob.  Death bobs like a cork in

The bathtub of a drunk. 

The tub is indifferent.  The finger

Flesh turns
Crenellate.  Once the drunk

Tried to touch a fortification

And fell.  His head
Made a thud; it almost

Cracked: the addiction

Almost jetted like urine
Yellower than sun

And exactly

The sickly luster signals
Dehydration.