Tonight was certainly interesting and quite different than my normal grind, so I thought I would share. A friend "celebrated" her birthday today and wound up with 5 drunk guys talking about war and guts and stuff. So, in an twist of lyrical fate, yours truly was challenged to write a "poem" and this is what I came up with.
To preface, this poem is about a local jaunt, a regular's haunt, that is close, in most cases close enough, to home. It is called the Galaxy Hut, for those catching up.
Poison In The Glass, 7/30/08 ~10PMish
The "slut" is but a hut,
It is not about smut,
No luck.
It typically does not suck,
But what.
Games become an electronical riddle and a heirarchial masterpiece.
Sometimes one will demonstrate a fiddle until the last drop of yeast.
Stumble home, fumble phone, bid for prone,
Wake.
Start again.
Heh, beats union work...
