All Hung Over

All Hung Over (or the morning after the night before)

If you could all talk a bit quieter, and keep the worst of your noise down,

I’d be grateful to you for the favour, for you see I’ve been a bit of a clown.

My head is terribly throbbing, my mouth’s the bottom of a bird-cage,

And my tongue it’s all coated, my skin is burning up in a rage.

My limbs are all of a tremble, and my throat is feeling all furred.

The room it is spinning round slowly, and my vision is decidedly blurred.

I can hardly bear to open my eyes, I can’t stand this too-piercing light,

I’m suffering real badly this morning for the major sins of last night.

I badly need some Alka-Selzer to settle my stomach real quick.

I can’t stand around for much longer - in fact, I think I’m going to be sick.

I’ve over-indulged, that’s perfectly clear, I obviously don’t know when to stop.

But I’ll be alright tomorrow, and I’ll never touch another drop.

Now I’d like to lie down for a while, at least until I’m feeling more chipper,

And I’d like to get undressed, but my fingers may not cope with the zipper.

The pounding pain in my head is real bad, it feels like I’ve been drinking since November,

But how I made it home again last night, you know – I really can’t remember.

I guess it must have been quite a session - I remember  that we started with beer,

Then we went on to spirits and cocktails, but after that  - nothing’s quite clear.

There were drinking games and some forfeits - I must have drunk lots and lots.

Just a few tequila slammers, then we drank through the bar - using shots.

My clothes are a hell of a mess, and now I’m starting to worry,

For the brown stains on my shirt are evidence that we stopped for a curry.

Or it could have been even worse: if so, I’ll have to go into re-hab,

For the truth is - I might have succumbed to the charms of a doner kebab.

They say the best cure is a full English, or an omelette with ham and quite cheesy,

But now every time I smell food, I start feeling all queasy.

But, I’ll just have to get a grip of myself, and shake off this beer-smelling fog.

For the pub’s open again quite soon, and it’ll be time for some hair of the dog.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2017