Books are scattered about on the floor,
Frank Herbert's Dune, and some Louis L'amour,
I'm not feeling quick, in fact quite dead,
tequila ache pounds my head.

Came in last night just scattered my clothes,
doors not locked, hell it's not even closed,
weather outside feels cool and clean,
way after noon its five fifteen.

Slept all day but I dreamt of her,
my mouth is dry, tongue covered in fur,
stumble to my feet, no I won't get far,
couple of steps, liquor on my bar.

Guess I'll get up, do it all again,
maybe tonight with Bombay gin,
a little cranberry, sweet and ****,
but it won't be enough to heal my heart.