I dug my toes into the thick bristles of a rug,
Into its dark autumn colored floral pattern.
Then I stood alone talking to my glass mug,
In this old, run-down highway tavern.
It was quiet and I’ve never been here before,
But for some odd reason these faces looked familiar.
Oh happiness!, why must you to be such a *****?;
For In every desperate sip there is something peculiar,
Like the memories of love I’ve been trying to ignore.
But I’m contempt nonetheless, in my intoxicated womb,
I might have lost the battle tonight, but not the war;
For in every helpless sip, I’m drowning in a bitter roux.
Closing my eyes, while my life sneaks out of the back door,
-With every sip I take, I’m making love to you.