Busy season

Ode to Busy Season 2018

With apologies to Walt Whitman

O vodka, my vodka! Our fearful trip is through
The car has rounded every bend, and gently carried you
At the thought of drinking you my step has extra bounce.
I open the trunk and reach for you to carry you into the house.

Mother-fucking piece of shit!
How I cursed my clumsy grip
The vodka tumbled downward
It did not survive the slip.

 

O vodka, my vodka! How can you not know
This week has been abominable; I desperately needed you so
For you I made a special trip out to the liquor store
For you I pined and dreamed (and rhymed!) and only wanted you more

I can’t believe it; it cannot be!
It’s really just my luck.
You leave me here without even a taste!
Fuckety-fuckety-fuck!

 

My vodka does not answer, all shattered on the ground
It does not recombobulate, my wailing now resounds
The car is parkèd in the drive, commencing its repose.
It’s too cold to go out again; besides the store is closed.

You all enjoy your evening
While I with mournful tread
Walk the ground my vodka lies
Fallen cold and dead.