With this bottle of beer stripped and nestled fair agonisingly against my yellowed teeth – umpteenth of the a.m. – I try my damnedest to find another way out of this stereotypical, none too serendipitous hellhole
No such 4.5 percent to amount to mind-boggling degrees of momentary-everything anymore
Other avenues to attempt to breathe, feel something far more advantageous wash on over me
Just That The Taste Is Turning Out To Be Too Damn Enticing Altogether
No such Midas Touch whatsoever – these seemingly robotic hand-to-mouth gloves all over again and again are nothing if not seriously disgusting, all in the genes
When aforementioned everything has fallen so very far by the lacklustre wayside it really is rather painful
One table – a typically forlorn somebody sitting miserable and centre-stage
Glutton for punishment carrying with them all kinds of yo-yo unable
Wasn’t meant to be this way, please hold back the river…
Eight bottles of glass-encased heaven hovering dangerously nearby
Forever and a day, inside of one desperately besieged minds-eye at least

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