Poetry is Not for Everyone

I don't know when

the final end comes, when

the smiles are off your back,

when we rim are wine-filled glasses

with fruit favors, not with ash.

and with the cheers of the

boring flesh, we come,

enjoy of the lousy brigade,

all the while, won't they say,

in a fetching sort of way

that we all will remain the same?

now if I'd wanted better news,

perhaps I'd switched out the booze,

those loose gin-kissed lips

that sank,

to the bottom of the will,

it's a terrible thrill,

oh how I feel I am drawing a blank.