Runaway Irishman

by Quint McGuinley

I'M bolloxed.
It's St. Patty’s and I'm floored.
My thoughts cannot behold
Where all my reasoning is stored.

I'm scuttered.
Two fat girls grabbed my crotch.
I gave my pants away again,
But somehow saved my Scotch.

I'm legless.
I lean against the bar.
I fall back through a table.
And my eyes are seeing stars.

I'm whacked.
My vision starts to spin.
My stomach starts to turn,
and I regret the shots of gin.

I'm sozzled.
The liquor takes its toll.
The urge to vomit grips me,
And yet I do not think to roll.

I'm shit-housed.
The barkeep helps me stand.
''Now off with you,'' he says to me,
As if I had this planned.

I'm pickled.
The outside air is brisk.
Some chunks cling to my jacket,
Barely falling as I flick.

I'm zonked.
My legs are wet with piss.
St. Patty's Day is awesome,
But it's never been like this!

I'm knocked out.
I'm sprawled across a bench.
My eyes refuse to open,
But my nose detects a stench.

I'm hangish.
A fog surrounds my brain.
I reek like dirty diapers,
And I pray for falling rain.

I'm clueless.
I wish I had more clothes.
There's a $20 in my butthole
Of which the good Lord only knows.

I'm sober.
The trip home took four days.
I couldn't afford taxis,
But I paid in ''other ways.''

I'm laid-up.
My body's still a mess.
I can't recall what happened,
But I know that I've been blessed.

I'm psyched.
My clothes reflect my mood.
I'm wearing green for next year,
But my opinion's skewed.

I'm Irish.
It helps if you are, too.
But it doesn't really matter,
If you're Italian or a Jew.

I mean it.
Please hold me to my word.
I’d love to tell you more,
But somehow my memory's blurred.

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