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Let us eat, let us drink and be merry,
for tomorrow may pass us all by;
for tomorrow we’ll be so hungover
that we’ll wish we could actually die . . .
with a mouth like a teeenager’s trainer,
a head like a rave in a tomb
and eyeballs like embers in mustard,
a pulse like the drumbeats of doom;
a tongue like a mouldering doormat,
a nose like a prickly pear;
insides like a lift that’s descending
(satanically – it’s so enfer)
with fingers of clammy salami
and skin like an anthill in sun,
and sweat like the drippings from mutton,
tomorrow’s not going to be fun . . .
so roll on that time of the evening
we can try to drown some of the pain
in a nice pinot noir or a syrah–
and start the whole cycle again.