The train didn’t arrive

on time

and I was forced

to spend time

at the tracks

in freezing cold weather

and I must confess

it ain’t pleasant

when derelicts are drinking

cheap red wine concealed

inside a brown paper bag

and their toxic breath

is a reminder that I haven’t

yet begun to drink

and Septa’s tardiness

is leaving me drinkless

at the Croydon Train Station

and my balls feel like

they’re gonna fall off.

I’m almost tempted

to take a swig of Mad Dog

If it doesn’t kill me

it’ll probably get me pretty high

and maybe I’d feel like

a 19th Century popet

slamming absinthe and toking hash

as the muses laughed

at my pitiful plight

and the few poems would rhyme

and keep mystical time

but I’m not so sure

if going backwards is real

or even possible

and all I have

is a week old City Paper

and a couple old Irish drunks

who claim they knew me when

and I’m just not feeling

like inspiration is likely

and perhaps the end is near

but I never trust a person

named after a whore’s client.

I just wanna return

to the fabled city

when I can drink my stout

and rhapsodize all about

various different routes

one may choose in life

rambling along chaotically

seems about all I can

manage to get done.

Nobody knows better than me

the utter lack of effort

and all I wanna do

is board a damn train

that as yet remains

somewhere else along the line

and I stand here freezing

not making it anywhere

but for want of drink

I’ll think it could be worse

but that won’t benefit

any of the ones to whom

I’m thereof referring

and that’s why no one listens

or no one really cares

and I can’t say I blame them



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