A Hangover and Its Cure 

Last night you drank a bit, more than a bit.

Your head this morning’s living proof of it.

The whisky and the wine slipped by like silk

But now, by God, you wish you’d stuck to milk,

When what went down so smooth comes up so vile:

Your brain in shock, your mouth a pit of bile,

Your eyes gummed shut.  That’s good, my chickadee.

You feel, you smell, do you really want to see

The missing tooth, the swellings on your face,

The horrid signs of how you trashed the place,

Splinters of glass to mark the final fall,

Long stalactites of vomit on the wall,

Puddles of nameless oozings by the bed?

Of course you don’t. Much better to be dead,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

And never look at alcohol again.

Still, stiffen up and get a load of this:

Your remedy for evenings on the piss,

The genuine Prairie Oyster – guaranteed

To succour drunkards in their hour of need:

Take olive oil, tomato juice, tabasco,

Lemon juice, Worcester sauce. Fill up your glass (go

Easy on the salt and pepper), pop

One yolk of egg unbroken on the top

And drink it off just so, with lots of water.

Zowie!  Shazam!  Go kiss your wife and daughters,

Pack up your briefcase, get yourself to work

And next time… next time don’t be such a jerk.

Your eyes won’t focus.  Which is just as well.

Do you wish to see how close you are to Hell?

John Whitworth