La Petite Mort,
or Slowing, in the Corner, Passing
Bloated with Fun,
. Anchored to the Young,
Tethered with Budweiser and rum -
. We drift.
There gapes a Riff
. Too deep for our Skiff,
Not even our stoutest "If..."
. Can span.
We're old. Our Clan
. No longer welcome sans
A sprightly Catamaran.
. We've no choice but to sink.
2008
Note: The periods are there to make the line jump like I want. That's all.
This is in complete contrast to my awesome weekend. Perhaps more on that later.
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