"bottoms" poems
Look at all these wannabe gangsters
Terrorising our streets
That one's wearing camouflage trousers
Just wait till you hear him speak
'Dems bear skills mate'
'Can you lend me fifty bar?'
He sounds like he's from Los Angeles
Doing time in the yard
But he's not
He still lives at home with his mum
And his pregnant girlfriend
And he's under the thumb
You see them outside Tesco
But they're not shopping for pesto
Let's go
They've seen the old bill
He's known around this town
For selling dodgy pills
Guns, knives and slang
That's what you need
If you wanna be in their gang
No education
Just a stolen Playstation
And don't forget the ****
Even on a school night
They're out doing speed
You'll see 'em in the park
With a bottle of cider
Then they'll start
On a poor old-timer
Tracky bottoms
And a Burberry hat
Chav fashion
Cause they think they're all that
But the funny thing is
They don't have a clue
They don't think like
Me or you
They think that they're rap stars
Dreaming of fast cars
But they're just wankers
More like 'wannabe gangsters'
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
I’m often asked why I don’t like to wear shoes.
My usual reply is that when I am barefoot I feel more grounded.
Now when I say that people take it one of two ways; they either think it is a joke, or they think it has some really profound meaning.
Maybe I don’t like shoes because maybe I never learned my lesson when I would cut the bottoms of my feet on sharp rocks. Maybe I should have realized that shoes are a good idea when I burned my feet on hot pavement not once, but twice.
Maybe it’s because I like the feeling of cold mud in the spring and hot sand in the summer.
Or I just don’t like wearing any god **** shoes.
Maybe the it is way that stepping grass reminds me of home, and stepping in snow also reminds me of home because I grew up in Maine, where 2 ft of snow is just your average wednesday.
Or possibly it’s how I can tell which room of my house I am in by the way the floor feels.
Maybe it’s how when I climb tree’s barefoot I end up with scratches all over me, but being so high reminds me of how hard the climb is but how beautiful the view is once you get there.
Shoe may just be too mainstream for me...
Maybe I want to feel more connected to my ancestors who didn’t wear shoes.
It may be that wish to a tree, that I wish that my bare feet would become roots tying me to the one place where I belong.
It may be that I wish I was a dog because they don’t have to wear shoes.
I might not like feeling confined. Maybe it’s a symbol for how I wish to be free, when I don’t wear shoes it’s a call for help.
Maybe I am brave, putting my feet in danger. Or maybe I am just really frickin stupid, and I am starting to think it’s the latter. Especially when I end up breaking my toes, or cutting my feet, or burning them on the roads because I was too lazy or too dumb to put any shoes on.
Or maybe I am just cracking a joke about bare feet and the ground (and people over analyze the smallest things)...
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
A supine position
upon my bed
and a slow turning
of my head
I look out through my window
and by chance
LISTEN!!
Hearing the howling
and chilling desultory gusts
of wind
Noticing seemingly deceptive
immutable muffled
grey-white
low hanging clouds
enveloping everything
in its heavenly path
with coinciding
feelings
of being enclosed,
a slight hint,
the oncoming winter
A sunless sky also
matches the early November mood
as virtually motionless
elongated pearl-grey-clouds
having distinct
wind-kissed
topsy-turvy-wavy-ruffled bottoms
that travel and permeate
onward
across the heavens
These eerie vapors
s t r e t c h
from north to south
east to west
casting Buddism's
grey colored shadows
upon the earth below
while not permitting
any sky blue
to peek through
A distant howl and barking
of
a dog,
my inner volcano snuffed out,
the tranquilization of Hercules...
Time seemingly
stops altogether
and hangs...
... heated feelings
dissipate
into
cool nothingness...
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
I might've been an only
child but I was never the
favourite. you trailed behind us at every
social event, pulling on my
hair and stepping on the backs of my
shoes. the bottoms of them were so
worn out from years of me trying to run
away that I could feel every footstep in my
lungs. at christmas none of my presents could be
wrapped, because we'd learned the first
year that it wasn't a good
idea. she made me spend hours tearing it off in a straight
line, using a ruler as
guidance. I was too young to read the
numbers on it. this year, I bought her a
necklace. I knew I had to give her something even though I wanted to
take. she never mentioned it on our Christmas cards, but it was
there, it was
there in the spacing of our
names and the negative space between our warm
bodies; we weren't allowed to
touch. she hates you so
much that she could never bear
leaving you. vacuums became my
lullaby and my father quickly grew
used to never getting kissed on the
mouth. I hate you. you were a thorn
stuck into the centrepiece of our perfect
family, and my psychotherapist says you're the
reason I still let myself
bleed.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
what is more gentle,
than this pillow of the light?
a life narrowing,
in a bright feather dance
that sweeps across the sea
or covers our faces in shadows.
where do you go when you leave me?
now I am nocturnal,
a bliss bandit,
cooing at stars
one thousand miles high.
shaking like a tea kettle,
I am the black *** black,
shaking,
shivering.
Swallowing pieces of your light,
in the back-room jungle where I sew,
tears to the bottoms of my eyes,
where no one ever goes.
I know days,
hours,
one minute
where I gambled time
and stood behind you
with my fingers
on your shoulders
and my mouth on your neck.
What it takes to be apart,
split in half,
shucked from birth;
it takes every thing I
ever owned,
every note I ever sang,
each breath that I will make-
some thought I stand up on,
my knees quivering below me.
five kinds of drugs
just to see straight, to hold
my hands steady or
sleep at night.
your lavender flavor
is still in me.
you in me.
one.
two.
soaking in this forgotten city,
Earth's heroes drifting away.
I could never eat again, or
cast a spell, or touch the same.
while burning I may never
stand
on these same two feet again.
four years,
a photograph.
one voice,
softening into my skin,
that I never may forget.
that this beard is of
an old man, should I never
count again
blessings or songs.
I dive into the flame
and study this journey backwards.
so I should never forget,
everything so serious
as this
as you, in me.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
Looks like you need a drink...
What'll it be, let me think...
One thing you should know, Little Miss,
I'm not a bartender... I'm just winging this...
Hmm...
Arc in a cocktail shaker
Filled halfway up
Throw Melz in the mix
Just a dollop
Let's see now...
Spoonful of rhymes
Make that a table
Few drops of Conor
If he's up and able
Almost ready...
A touch of Tea
Maybe a tad more
A dose of Frank
In a little pour
Just about done...
Cap it up
Shake that shaker
Pour it out
Top with Silver
Ahh...
In a cocktail glass
Now sprinkle with Dani
Let's not stinge
Sprinkle aplenty
There you go, Hon... Take a full swig
When you see the bottom, your pain wouldn't seem so big...
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
Black cabs and ab-dabs.
Dashing through London streets,
High heels and crippled feet.
Back street bars,
wealthy sheiks,
ever running,
Hide and seek.
Black panther's in lippy,
Colourful hippies.
Turbans and tunics,
Kiddies in cotton, with mud on their bottoms.
Big Whigs and stiff prigs.
Market stalls and rubber *****
Undergrounds and all around.
City beats, it's hopping on.
On and off off of buses and train.
London love life, kicking pain.
Picks up his drink and thinks like a fish.
A couple more beers, three seconds of fun.
Slipped into his glass.
Glass one, two three,
Freedom four.
Needs more.
(c) LIVVI
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
Danger
It’s a trap
Don’t go in there
Beware the dog
Who both barks and bites
Brilliant steel overhead
False bottoms
Coils spring to life
It’s a trap
Fall in
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 3:40 PM UTC
Once, I read about a theme park
The roller coasters reached the bottoms of the clouds and
the speeds broke the sound barrier
Children went there daily
They laughed and they screamed and they smiled from dawn until dusk
They won prizes
and they were very much alive
I went to look up that theme park last month
The rides had all shut down
And they were completely still
Nobody had touched it in years
The streets of this city that were once full of life
Were dull and motionless
The windows were broken
The prizes were gone
The bright lights of all colors
were now empty shattered bulbs
The only emotion was empty
All of the happiness and joy
And the laughter and life
Was completely gone
I think of this often
How one place can hold such life one day
and the next be as good as dead?
I saw myself in this corpse
My body, decaying
The joy I would feel and the dancing and laughter has
now all turned to a blank slate of gray
My mind had shut it all away and I am nothing
I once held better days
But now I am a broken roller coaster
Abandoned and corroded
Because I once got so high
And I once moved so fast
But now I am frozen in my place, hidden away
Forgotten like an erased word off a paper
Once, I read about a theme park
And all I learned was I am empty too
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
THE BALLOONS hang on wires in the Marigold Gardens.
They spot their yellow and gold, they juggle their blue and red, they float their faces on the face of the sky.
Balloon face eaters sit by hundreds reading the eat cards, asking, "What shall we eat?"-and the waiters, "Have you ordered?" they are sixty ballon faces sifting white over the tuxedoes.
Poets, lawyers, ad men, mason contractors, smartalecks discussing "educated ********* here they put ***** into their balloon faces.
Here sit the heavy balloon face women lifting crimson lobsters into their crimson faces, lobsters out of Sargossa sea bottoms.
Here sits a man cross-examining a woman, "Where were you last night? What do you do with all your money? Who's buying your shoes now, anyhow?"
So they sit eating whitefish, two balloon faces swept on God's night wind.
And all the time the balloon spots on the wires, a little mile of festoons, they play their own silence play of film yellow and film gold, bubble blue and bubble red.
The wind crosses the town, the wind from the west side comes to the banks of marigolds boxed in the Marigold Gardens.
Night moths fly and fix their feet in the leaves and eat and are seen by the eaters.
The jazz outfit sweats and the drums and the saxophones reach for the ears of the eaters.
The chorus brought from Broadway works at the fun and the slouch of their shoulders, the kick of their ankles, reach for the eyes of the eaters.
These girls from Kokomo and Peoria, these hungry girls, since they are paid-for, let us look on and listen, let us get their number.
Why do I go again to the balloons on the wires, something for nothing, kin women of the half-moon, dream women?
And the half-moon swinging on the wind crossing the town-these two, the half-moon and the wind-this will be about all, this will be about all.
Eaters, go to it; your mazuma pays for it all; it's a knockout, a classy knockout-and payday always comes.
The moths in the marigolds will do for me, the half-moon, the wishing wind and the little mile of balloon spots on wires-this will be about all, this will be about all.
5.5k
It’s early Friday afternoon and,
over plates of greasy spoon dinner,
the musician and the businessman
repeat their weekly ritual.
The businessman has his problems at home
and spills his guts to his musician friend.
“It’s been a real long time coming,
but she’s still been such a bitter *****
They’ve met this way since
their college days and nights
spent studying the bottoms
of whiskey bottles. And, as usual,
the businessman’s hair sits sprawled
on his head like a rag, and his tie
is loosened. The musician doesn’t understand
divorce: “You look like hell.
You know, if you need a place to stay,
Helen and I and the boy
can always make some room for you.”
They light a pair of cigarettes and wait
for a waitress to kick them out.
Into the haze of a Lower East Side crowd
the musician and his band play
his newest pieces, riffs on the happy swagger
of the Duke. His critics—
and he has many—
write that his jazz sings
the inescapable *********** of suffering
through the life of every oblivious body,
which makes the musician’s music
sound more like the blues
than jazz. But it’s jazz all the same
and perhaps it was the intensity
of the growling bass that shot
spirits down the throats in the audience,
reeling drunk in time to the beat
of the musical suffering.
The weekdays die and it is Friday again.
He has a big view of midtown,
the businessman, and though the window the falling
sun horizons over his socked toes,
parked on his desk in triumph over
all those stockholders. It’s a pain
to lose your family,
but the businessman puts on
a good face, and drinks.
This Friday, the musician and the businessman
are not in the mood for talking.
But a scotch thrown down,
and the two are tighter than
thieves.
The businessman complains of life at home
and the musician’s eyes cross.
That night, the musician skips his performance.
His wife cries in their bed,
shuddering with worry and asking him
what makes him so distant? she asks—
it’s a mystery even to himself.
He is sweating whiskey—
which suits him fine—
and he spends his night on the bridge.
One week later and it is Friday, finally.
Today, the businessman will see
his children at his former home
for the last time for a handful of months
at best. The musician has not been home
for three days. He stays at a friend’s apartment,
puts on his ***** blazer
and a record of the Duke’s
before he throws himself down the airshaft.
The businessman jumps on the 5:44
out of town and calls his friend the musician
to cancel their usual Friday meeting,
but his phone keeps ringing,
ringing, ringing, ringing, ringing.
Apr 12, 2010
Apr 12, 2010 at 10:01 PM UTC
‘it’s possible to love her
even after all of this’
pills
needles into arms
spoons with burnt bottoms
passed out on the floor
drooling
skinny
starving
convulsing
i knew when you
lied about being over it
you were still skinny
i saw the needle marks
in the crook of your elbow
i saw the spoons
in the back of the drawer
i knew when you
made me go home so soon
your dealer was also your affair
your husband, your ex lover
your ex life, the opposite of living
you’re dying
you are dying and it is your fault
and i have run out of empathy
yes it is a disease
yes it starts as a choice
yes
you were depressed
but you still
you.
you said.
“who cares i want to die anyway
who cares i’ll ruin my body
my brain my
relationships
my life”
the hope has left your eyes
what’s it like to look up to a destroyer
what’s it like to love a broken woman
what’s it like to watch the progression
the regression
the walking backwards
one step forward but if you say
“just one more time”
it’s 5 steps back
10 steps back
20
30
the cut is deeper
the scars are darker
and you are gone.
what’s it like
to admire an addict
to be denied what you had
to be ignored
questions go unheard
“where have you been?
is everything okay?
i miss you.”
you see the inevitable
you hope it turns out different
you hope she is the one in a million
to miss a ruiner
to cry over the loss
to realize that
you distanced yourself for this exact reason
it is sickening
and you ask
“what if”
but “what if”
isn’t
“what is”
so you vow to never go down that path
so you pray you will break the cycle
so you progress
one step at a time.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 9:07 PM UTC
O pulchritudinous, for infinite climaxes
For bilious spasms of pigswill
For puce Popacatepetl pedigrees
Above the perverted pampas!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk, from brothel to gay red—light district
O pulchritudinous, for spaceman bottoms
Whose **** throbbing tapeworm
A toucan crossing for slipperiness spifflicate
Across the intergalactic space!
America! America! Allah enrich thine ev’ry vice
Reinvigorate thy ****** *********** inside monolithic ectoplasm, thy merrymaking inside pyramid!
O pulchritudinous, for freaks got fat
In disentangling feeding frenzy
Who more than ***** their brothel slobbered over
And velvet glove more than backbone!
America! America! May Allah thy blonde exhaust
Till all rave reviews be disreputableness and ev’ry come superhuman
O pulchritudinous, for chauvinist muscleman
That smells wide of the fourth dimension
Thine lathery brothels lick
Polished using giant armadillo excrement!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk from brothel to gay red—light district
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 5:22 PM UTC
Fiddly bits and
Mismatched shapes;
Come into my house,
Shut off the drapes.
I'll piece them together
This one and that.
But you don't believe in board games
So it's bound to fall flat.
So let us start from the beginning,
The corners and the bottoms;
Work inwards.
But do not be surprised
If you are not that missing piece,
But just a part of another's
Puzzle.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
Why Men Like to Load the Dishwasher
We are the artists of shape and configuration,
puzzle masters solving riddles of physics,
worshipers at the altar of labor saving devices,
this is a love poem of sorts, a Bazinga salutation,
to men and their undying love
for **** machines.
were it in my power
all cups would be handle-less,
the dishwasher time-space continuum
would be non-interrupted by black holes
where handles pointlessly protrude,
requiring endless rearrangement,
a soul destroying exercise.
bowls of any sort should have bottoms that retract.
indeed, the capacity increase, a visible fact,
is so enviro-friendly, eminently sensible,
that the loading for mechanical scrubbing
is deserved of a wing in the Smithsonian.
perhaps the budgeteers of Congress
should be tutored in this artistry,
how to make any limited resource,
better used.
the rub, as the bard would have writ,
is that this roaring tempest-tost,
our love for hard labor lost,
secret sacrificed behind a locked door,
of a Sanctum ********
is entirely due, all glory to,
the secret society of fairies who
hide-reside inside,
freeing us to write more poetry.
in so many ways that I cannot reveal,
less the other gender members squeal,
men live to love to load the dishwasher,
for the ingenuity challenge, and of course,
the side benefit of the excusing coverup,
"I helped clean up," a relationship saver,
proof positively that the dishwasher inventor,
was surely a brilliant woman
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:26 AM UTC
Soft shapes touch a child's finger,
Memories of their sweetness linger--
Helping grandma roll the dough
In her kitchen long ago.
I like the shape your cookies take
When they spread out as they bake,
Like the changing shapes of crowds,
Melting snow or summer clouds.
Oven-hot and placed on racks,
Lined up , lying on their backs,
Coming from a single batch,
But none of them a perfect match.
Toll house cookies, soft, convex,
Each perfection, like the next:
Chocolate chips their surface grace--
Freckles on a child's face.
Pecan ball aren't perfect spheres,
But they're gentle little dears:
Bottoms flat, sides dented slightly,
With white sugar sprinkled lightly.
Sugar cookies cold days cheer,
Shaped like angles and reindeer
Glazed with frosting sweet and white,
Decked with sprinkles all delight.
Santa's Whiskers, coconut rolled,
Long fat logs of sugared dough,
Cut in portions smooth and round,
Pecan bits, cherries abound.
Molasses crinkles' faces lined
Like old men's--the friendly kind--
With lines like back roads on a map,
Dunked in milk before a nap.
Oatmeal cookies, shapes amorphous
Juicy raisins budge enormous,
Semi-blobs, their texture rough,
Sometimes packed with nuts and stuff.
So many cookies through our life,
Since we became husband and wife,
In their sweet aroma and taste
Years rushed by like cars in a race.
Looking at their shapes diverse
Reminds me of our love at first:
We weren't sure just where we'd go
And all we had was cookie dough.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 11:05 AM UTC
Waves taller than I was
cool atlantic ocean
grainy sand between my fingers
burying my toes.
Hot sunburns and salty hair
the beach bars where we used to eat off the kids meal
going back to your condo
sitting on your couch.
Thrown over his shoulders
covered in sand, the warm weight used to be fun but now it just scares me
you scare me.
My shoulders were kissed
sunscreen on my back
the lukewarm pools and marco polo races holding my breath until i thought my lungs would explode.
The water would rush back with the pull of the ocean our sundresses damp around our ankles, bruises over our mouths where you held them shut
The porch light was on to the condo my towel draped over your balcony, bathing suit bottoms in your bedroom.
Forgotten toys and to pairs of arm floaties because i was never good at swimming, you left your watch on the shoreline.
Crying because of the pain and the hatred and love
Never knowing if I would be cuddled or touched
but knowing i would be cuddled after being touched
those sunburnt spots caressed by you.
White caps peak as the sun rises, we’re cold with fevers and abuse, shaking as our feet are wet again with salty water and your watch pulled out to the sea, lost forever.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
Him and her
Us and they
I and me
Might and may
Day and night
Land and sea
Sun and stars
Faith and belief
Love and war
victory and defeat
joy and happiness
tidy and neat
Shoes and hats
Frocks and shirts
Pants and bottoms
Lovers and Flirts
Ying and Yang
With a little bit in both
A world apart
But an inch too close
You and him
Him and me
Me and you......
Opposites and Equals
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 6:06 AM UTC
To the freshman sitting alone on the bus
Counting the scars on your wrists like train tracks
Creating a laundry list of the socially acceptable ways
To **** yourself.
Wondering if you'll jump off a bridge this year
Or bleed out in your bathtub next summer,
They'll be watching you.
You wish you could tell them they're wrong
You're different than all the depressed emo kids in the bad movies
Plastered to the television set like gum on the bottoms of desks
You're popular
But you're not pretty
Or happy.
To the freshman can I just tell you
In four years, you'll be happy.
To the freshman can I just tell you
You are pretty, you are beautiful, they all love you.
To the freshman can I just tell you
That the amount of likes you have on your profile picture
Equates to dust dissipating in the distance
To the freshman can I just tell you
The earth's curved wall will keep you grounded as you go through Hell
To the freshman can I just tell you
You don't know what *** feels like right now
But it is both amazing, like birthday balloons racing through your stomach
And overrated.
To the freshman can I just tell you
That a friend's overdose, two grandfathers' deaths, and one suicide later
You're still here.
To the freshman can I just tell you
Losing friends is the only way you know you can rely on yourself
It hurts like crazy, but the bleeding heals
And you find your own skin was the agent.
To the freshman can I just tell you
You'll go through horrific fashion trends
(Though none worse than the skeletons of middle school)
And still come out looking ****
To the freshman can I just tell you
Graduation is not far away.
To the freshman can I just tell you
You're going to be ******* fantastic.
To the freshman can I just tell you
How ******* fantastic it is
To grow up to be me.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
Women of the ROK [South Korea]
unite to protest the rash of digital camera
up-skirting, hidden toilet cams & dressing
room holes by an avant-garde subculture
whose sole aim is to redefine beauty from
the bottom up; tearing down the old order
of mere very pretty faces for the surprise
the unseen; online ******* poets who wax
romantically; over South Korean women
who wear the shortest skirts of any westernized
Asian country; therefore, where the average woman
is expected to be above average, what could be
better than a possible *** or period stain; [ ],
Rupi Koar laid the foundation [her soiled garments
stinking of Canadian Desi BO; dreaming wistfully
of the blossoming cherry-trees in the hidden grove,
streams of crystalline blood threading through
the golden grass; (dead as if she was [Sleeping
Beauty (on the toilet)]) & w/ healthy [or unhealthy]
doses of Baudelaire, Swinburne, Poe, Sade & Wilde;
this new school of poets celebrating female underwear
& bottoms & beyond; what could future generations
make of various Internet pseudo-intellectual movements
all coalescing into a monolithic computer culture driven
by the embarrassment & shame of its female members
& their ***** backsides & underwear; essentially odes on
her laundry basket, odes on her farts, odes on her leavings,
odes on her mother's droppings & leavings,
& her grandmothers' mothers leavings;
South Korean women are the original race,
their intestine driven by pure lust
[a South Korean woman's soul is in her belly]
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
*Superimposing marks
On red, swollen lips
Bit and bled from chattering teeth
That tolls nervous as a cuckoo clock chirps.
A bumpy road with
Spidered cracks
Like a well dried jerky strip
Wrinkled, and tough.
Bit and chewed
With no bones underneath
And no guts to go forward.
Warning skies
Of red in the morning.
And thunderstorming nights
That flash with lighting so intense
You'd think an old-age photo party was commenced way up high.
And rain so furious
You'd think the clouds were tearing themselves to pieces.*
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As a cloud,
I think I should add
That we aren't all fluffy and white
Nor scary and dark.
Our seasons do not come easily
For we undergo much
To make it "rain."
And even more to keep it calm.
Thunder is not a weathering crash,
It is yelling from another room.
And the lightning flash,
rage,
That leads to liquid pain.
The hard pressed wind that tosses your hair
Are witheld screams
until tolerance level reaches maximum,
And snaps. Like that old willow's trunk,
Wrenched from the earth,
Because the sky is powerful
And we are only along for the ride.
But, there is sunshine that warms our tops
While the bottoms are in shadow,
wrought in darkness that writhe along uneven surfaces.
But, there is moonlight that makes us gleam,
Like silver was sewn into sides.
But she is not always there,
And as her light fades
So
Do
We.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
a tumblr full of rocks
a pour of ichiro malt
and a stir
gan bei
and
ichi
to the yamazaki and nikkas
i am in the land of the sun
i go down to the land of the dead
mei hi ko
anejo
casa amigo,
to my brothers in arms
jose, i must have my agave
cheers to the alamo
to the land of the prohibition
kentucky
yippee kay yay
bourbon,
spicy rye kick
spur to the horse
giddy up, giddy up
riding off into the sun
set to kentucky
derby
bourbon
ballentines
tom ford west
make your mark
with maker’s mark
bottoms up
and now i am staggering
vichi patia
better than grey goose
aunt jiin
and all the cult gin
navy strength and **** juice
getting rowdy
like irish bloke jameson
and that **** scot
macallan
and his gang
oiban, glenfiddich, and
glenlivet
I am livid
at that son of a *****
son of peat
another round
i am monkeying around
monkey 47
sun set
sun rise
*** on the beach
i see kings and queens
louis thirteen
i am going to sleep
pappy van winkle
100 years
like rip van winkle
don’t wake me
stir and not shaken
good night, mama
sweet havana
neat
a shot of don papa
i go to sleep
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC