wordsout by Godfrey Rust                                     BREAKING THE CHAINS 32 of 61  The place where socks go    HOME


drunk baby

Drunkard

When first it was offered
a drop was enough—
you weren't even sure
that you liked the stuff, 

but you were quite young
and your palate was chaste—
with some perseverance
you soon got the taste. 

You could take it or leave it?
That's what they all think.
Soon your only desire
was for just one more drink. 

Now it's straight from the bottle,
not even a cup,
and you splutter and hiccup
and bring it back up 

and bloated and bleary
you lurch into bed,
not one ounce of remorse
in your stupefied head. 

Well you're satisfied now
but you don't know till when,
and first thing in the morning
you're at it again— 

it's not whisky or gin
(who on earth would drink that!):
it's the thin white warm hard stuff
that lays you out flat— 

you may sleep through the night
and you don't suffer colic
but, baby, you know
you're a real milkaholic.