The Drunken Poet
The poet staggered, words astray,
His rhymes forgot by the night’s state of play .
Two kind ladies, with hearts so true,
Helped him home it was the best thing to do
Upon the threshold, the door swung wide,
His wife stood firm, eyes opened wide.
“Care to explain?” she calmly said,
“Or is your muse still lost in your head?”
He swayed and mumbled, “Twas inspiration’s call,
A pint or two, or maybe them all.
These fine women, my saviors true,
Escorted me home when the streets I misconstrued.
The ladies blushed, they made their retreat,
Leaving the poet to face defeat.
His wife sighed deeply, her patience worn thin,
“You write of love, but yours for me is so thin .
So the drunken poet learned with dread,
To choose his muse with care instead.
For while the ale may cloud his mind,
It’s his wife at home who isn’t blind.
He vowed no more drink and writing
His wife face angry is so frightening
poems from then on, he wrote with care
To drink and write again he wouldn’t dare.
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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Comments (1)
This is true for one was drunk and writing you really do not know what you are writing and that is the trouble of drinking and writing. It would be funny though one would just have to apologize if it was libelous.