“Clumps of dainty silver bones
Mixed amidst the silent stones
Are bathed not in blood or tears
But in the light of yesteryears.”
I don’t know the meaning of that verse,
If it be blessing or a curse,
But it’s tattooed on my forehead
Which is why I no longer drink before bed.
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You a say a that a eating glass
Is a bad a for a you
And that a if you eat a glass
You’ll a have an uncomfortable poo,
Yet a here you go a giving me
A water you hole a da ass
Cause you give a me the water
And it’s a in a drinking glass.
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Today’s the day we drink until
We’re knocked over by a breeze.
It’s by far the holiday
With the fewest memories.
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The reindeer grew impatient.
They’d not flown for a year,
And so had entertained themselves
With dirty jokes and beer.
The big night was six weeks away.
They wanted to hit the gym,
But they had to have permission from
The one, the only… Him.
So Cupid and Vixen volunteered
To do some good deer/bad deer
And get their training authorized
By mister snowy-white beard.
“Mista Claus?” Cupid asked
In her Boston reindeer drawl.
“Our bellies all got really big
And our muscles super small.”
The big red suit stayed silent
Giving no indication,
So Vixen thought the time was ripe
For some intimidation.
She leapt upon his table
And wished that she had antlers.
She smashed a few of Santa’s toys
And three vodka decanters.
Cupid saw it coming
But a few seconds too late:
Santa’s eyes got angry,
And Vixen was served on a plate.
Seven subdued reindeer
Resumed their aimless days,
Their hopes of strength forsaken
By the mounting Christmas haze.
Four weeks later, the seven awoke
To a burning reddish glare.
A red-nosed reindeer robot
Was flying through the air.
They knew at once they’d been replaced,
And that they’d have to go
To avoid poor Vixen’s fate,
Come the next Ho-Ho-Ho.
So somewhere in Alaska
Seven flabby caribou
Seek someone to fly away with them.
Perhaps it will be you?
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The Daily Travesty 
Passing The Bar?
The taps are flowing,
The music blares!
The mistakes pile up
But nobody cares.
New stories are heard
And new memories leave.
Every girl at the bar
Hears “sup girl? I’m Steve.”
Inhibitions
Are out the door.
There’s one good answer
When they ask “one more?”
Bodies shimmy
And booties shake!
Isn’t it joyful
At rationality’s wake?
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Filed under Poems
Tagged as Bad Decisions, Drinking, Humor, Poetry, Postaday, Social Commentary, Socializing