Day 74 Whisky On The Rocks

There is a sour mash, it’s not like a monster mash. It’s bitter stuff, best to spit it out. We only want scotch neat. What a treat. It’s another day, more of the same. When everything seems to be the same shit, different day; then hold on tight.

Stay sober, don’t have that drink. You will find that the quality of life improves with use. It’s not a bother to abuse, if your socks rhymes with hose. Some bad awful hook, with a wishful thinking, fistful drinking.

The power of sledge hammer, like any tool. Best when used with moderation and self control. Otherwise you just end up looking like a damn fool. Buyer beware, too much pride is a sin. If you spend all your time alone, and boast of your sobriety, then maybe you have a problem too.

Coming Down The Line

There is a mighty judgement coming down the line. In time. They can not have it both ways. There is trouble in their abuse, they won’t be of use. I would like to see them walk five hundred miles in these boots. Such a fitting punishment. They will hate me, but they will hate themselves worse. For what they did to themselves.

No worse for the wear. Sometimes you have to outsmart the fox and take your rocks. I don’t know much about life, hardly a dime of the circle of life. They say I might make a fifty cent piece, but I’m short six cents and don’t circulate.

There seems to be some kind of paradox. It’s not these boots, or the socks. Blimey, it doesn’t rhyme with socks, it’s too late for ad hawks. Going to have to write a pelican brief, some relief. Good grief, they play with stoking hate, fate is terminate.

Like a second hand emotion, I’m not wanted or needed. They have no use for the likes of me. They needed me then, but now; I’m just in the way. There is a rule, you never throw a man away. You never know when you are going to need his help again.

Might As Well Face It!!!

They been cruel. It’s not unusual for a cat to hate mice, but when the cat isn’t nice, neither are the mice. I knew some nice mice, but now they ride in wolf suits. My pack know my Galactic Address, and will eat mean cats that hate nice mice.

If they could be kind again, then we wouldn’t send the wolves. I fear it’s too late, they won’t donate.