The party is over,
The feast and potations are consumed,
Only crumbs of crackling and wine vapours remain,
The bodies have scarpered,
And now comes the crash,
And plunge you shall,
Fatigue comes like a plague,
The joy from before feels like a dream,
Yesterdays consumption has become a force of gravity,
Roast beef like boulders on each eyelid,
The sofa is your workbench for the day,
And post-revel debilitation is todays vocation.
This is something of a curse,
Gouged runes in every limb,
A spell since birth,
This resistance to movement,
Innate in my being,
An unwelcome piece of my soul,
I’m a sloth in pyjamas,
My hair glued to a pillow,
From work or strain,
I hide under unwashed laundry,
Peeking out from behind hazy chalices,
Still sat amongst last nights supper,
I’m an acolyte in bed sheets,
This sedentary religion has taken me by force,
This creed of sluggishness,
I feel no joy at this baptism,
It’s an aspect of shame,
A cross I’d rather not bear,
These words,
Spoken from my bunk,
They are my mea culpa.
WorldofHarley 